Far Strider
by Aguy.SB
Summary: A college student finds himself transported into a strange land with burgeoning magical powers, and is taken in by Ned Stark. Will he sink or swim in this medieval society, and will he ever get home? OC-insert without knowledge of Game of Thrones, new planeswalker. Slow power ramp.
1. A Whole New World

_AN: As a note, this mostly uses some very loosely interpreted MTG fluff for the magic mechanics. Protagonist has no knowledge of MTG, and thus spell names or effects are not the same. Obviously, I don't own GoT, ASoIaF, MTG etc. Some canon events are reproduced fairly accurately, but events do diverge a_ _lot_ _as the story continues, and the world isn't perfectly canonical in general. Age wise, I tended to split the difference between GoT and ASoIaF, picking ones I found reasonable for how the characters acted._

 _Note: Crossposted to Spacebattles, same title. That will typically be more advanced, and potentially have more content._

 **Chapter 1: A Whole New World**

It had been a week since I last slept, and I was _not_ doing well. I had long passed the point of exhaustion, and yet no matter what I did I couldn't sleep.

I spent hours every night in meditation; I suspect that without that, I would have gone mad for lack of sleep days prior. As it was, I knew I was bordering on that gaping abyss of insanity; I was, after all, having a hallucination. I knew it was a hallucination because I was still together enough to know that even _if_ all the desks in the lounge were on fire, the fire wouldn't be _green_.

I was, in short, totally fucked. I decided then that I'd go to the doctors in the morning, when they were open. Until then, I was going to meditate. I felt like doing so outside, that the nature might give an extra bit of calm and relaxation that I needed so desperately to keep myself together. So I walked down the flights of stairs from my dorm room on the fourth floor, the absence of an elevator an ever (non-)present annoyance, then opened a door into the dorm's courtyard.

It was a cool October night in Massachusetts, but I was adequately warm with my thick, fleece-lined hoody, scarf, lined jeans and boots. I sat crosslegged on the grass, and began to breathe, subsuming myself under a mixture of self-hypnosis and meditation. I imagined myself sinking deeper, deeper, becoming one with land, one with the trees. I was in an ancient wood, near a spring, and as the water burbled and the leaves rustled I fell deeper, deeper, deeper…

And then I felt it, a flood of power. It was Nature, the force of wild life and instinct, a spiritual connection to the woods and primordial, unfettered animal living. It swept through my body like a tidalwave over a city, washing away all the accumulated stress and exhaustion. I felt alive, awake, clear-headed for the first time in days. It was _amazing_.

I opened my eyes, and realized I was totally screwed. I wasn't in my dorm's courtyard anymore. No, I was in an _actual_ _ancient forest_. Right in front of me was a tree. It seemed unnatural, with baby-skin smooth bone white bark and blood red leaves. Most alarming was the face that seemed to have grown out of the bark, its red eyes seeming to stare at me fondly.

Being a massive nerd, I had thought about what to do if I suddenly found myself transported through magic, accident or malice to Faerie or some other realm of fantasy. Specifically, attempt to recreate the phenomenon and get back to Earth _as soon as possible_. Because without narrative plot armor or some other ridiculously overpowered ability, anyone in one of those settings was likely to end up dead. Even if they didn't, living without the internet, massive libraries of science-fiction and fantasy, without my friends and family and pets… If I didn't have to lose all of that, I didn't want to. And the best way _not_ to have to lose my life, whether metaphorically or literally, was to get back home.

So I sat back down, and meditated, focused on my dorm room. The smells, the colors, the sounds and feeling. It didn't work. Then I tried my mother, unsuccessfully. My family home was, again, a failure. My childhood home, likewise. The dojo and archery range where I practiced weren't viable. The woods I played in as a child, the stable I rode horses from, schools, Stonehenge where'd I been several times while living in England, none of them worked. But even though I'd been sat there for hours, even though the sun had risen, I wasn't giving up.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in the Godswood?" demanded a man authoritatively. He had a long face with grey eyes, a neat, short beard and chin-length dark brown hair. Beneath a thick fur cloak his clothes were embroidered, their quality denoting him a man of some importance if I was correct in guessing a medieval-equivalent society from the massive greatsword he carried.

I thought quickly. Judging from my sudden transportation, magic was both real and potentially problematic; I didn't want to give my real name. "Odysseus Gangari, but you can call me Odds" I answered. My last name in honor of Odin the Wayfarer, my first a promise to one day return home no matter how long the journey. Plus, the shortened form sounded at least somewhat similar to my own name, so I'd react to it. "And as for what I'm doing here, I haven't the faintest idea."

He raised his eyebrows. "You haven't the faintest idea?" he repeated. "Considering I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and it is _my_ castle you have trespassed, _my_ Godswood you are in, I expect a better answer than that."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. "No, I really have no idea. I was meditating in the courtyard of my school, and when I opened my eyes I was here," I explained, telling the truth as I didn't have a better explanation.

"Your word on it?" he asked. "And know that the weirwood will know if you lie, and if you do I will execute you."

"You have my most solemn oath, Lord Stark," I said. He seemed to wait a moment, for what I don't know, before he nodded cautiously.

"And do you have any proof of this?" he questioned.

"Beyond the weirwood not eating me or whatever?" I asked rhetorically. He smiled despite himself at that, so I guessed weirwoods didn't eat people for lying. "Um. Let me think for a second." And I did. What did I have that was totally foreign to the middle ages? "Well, the stitching on my clothes is done by machine, it should be finer and more even than anything people can manage by hand. Oh! And my wallet, I have my ID and credit cards on me, those are made of plastic, I doubt you have that here. And my phone," I patted my pockets, no phone, "ah, I left my phone in my room. My shoes, they use rubber. And if you have a mathematician at hand, I can see if there's anything I know which is more advanced than what you've previously discovered?"

"Very well. Throw me your items of plastic, and if they are unknown to me I will escort you to Maester Luwin to discuss mathematics," the lord ordered. I struggled to get my wallet out of my jeans pocket without standing up and potentially seeming threatening, then tossed it to him. Of course my coordination, never the best at throwing, decided that was the perfect moment to go on the fritz, and the wallet landed several feet away from Lord Stark.

I winced in shamed embarrassment. "I, ah-, sorry?" I stammered. He took a step, bent over and picked it up without looking away from me. Then he flipped the wallet open and with an impressive degree of one handed dexterity managed to pull my driver's license out with one hand, the other fixed to the hilt of his belt-knife.

After a few moments of inspection, he spoke. "It seems that your plastic, at least, bears out your story so far; I have never seen the like. What plant or animal does it come from?"

"Um, thanks? Plastic doesn't really come from a plant or animal. Well, I guess the oil comes from the dinosaurs. But that was millions of years ago, so I don't think it counts the way you're thinking. Basically, some chemists a long time ago figured out how to use chemicals and heat and pressure and other chemicals to make plastic. I know that explanation isn't very good, sorry," I said.

"Don't be," he said. "After all, I have paper and glass, but I couldn't tell you how to make them either." Damn, that was unexpectedly clever of him. I'd have to be careful not to confuse undeveloped for unintelligent. "Rise, Odds, it seems we will be calling on my Maester this morning."

A few minutes of walking later, as Lord Stark pointed out different parts of his fortress, we came to a tower. He opened the door, and gestured for me to proceed. We went up a couple flights of stairs, coming to another door. He knocked.

"Please, enter," an old man's voice called from inside. When Lord Stark opened the door I saw the owner of the voice, an old man in robes with a metal choker around his neck made from multiple links of different metals. Did they have slavery here?

"Maester Luwin, I hope we are not interrupting," Lord Stark said politely. I was American, but I knew that when your liege lord came over he wasn't interrupting even if you were mid-coitus.

"Not at all, my lord, not at all," Maester Luwin replied. Damn, it would be ironic as hell if they called their slaves _Maester_. But no way in hell was I going to broach the subject of slavery just yet. No good would come of picking fights.

"This is Oddyseus Gangari, an unexpected visitor to Winterfell. He claims to be something of a mathematician, and wanted to compare his knowledge with your own," Lord Stark announced.

"A pleasure to meet you, Maester Luwin," I said, stretching out my hand without thinking about it, my parents' conditioning on polite greetings coming to the fore. He grasped it around the wrist with a bit of bemusement; I guessed that manly warrior handshake equivalents were a thing, but most likely shared between _warriors_ rather than with Maesters.

What followed was a pretty comprehensive workup of mathematics. We used chalk on slate boards; I was glad to avoid the wax-tablets that Romans used for impermanent work, but sad that paper was clearly limited and expensive. That said, I doubted I'd have done well with a quill or primitive pen, so perhaps it was for the best.

As for the math, I quickly found that the locals, the Westerosi, used base ten notation with their own equivalent of Arabic numerals.

And it was then that I had this massive moment of cognitive dissonance; I realized I'd been flawlessly speaking in a foreign language, interpreting it as English. Once I figured it out I realized that I could, if I focused, hear the difference. Otherwise though it seemed I'd gained some version of Allspeak, which was pretty awesome. Fairy magical adaptations for the win.

The locals also had working knowledge of algebra and geometry. They knew of Pi and the Golden Ratio. That said, they had little use of graphing equations and none of calculus, so I was able to establish my bonafides. Lord Stark had been following what he could, but we had obviously left him behind at some point.

"My lord, how long will Odds be staying with us?" Maester Luwin asked. The man was clever enough to have figured out that my being there was strange, but interested enough in what I knew to want to keep me around.

"I intend to allow him to stay as my guest for as long as he likes, providing his stay remains agreeable to both him and myself," Lord Stark replied. "Should I take this to mean you'd appreciate sharing knowledge between you?"

"Yes, my lord. His knowledge… If he were part of the Citadel, he would doubtless have at least two or three links of yellow gold for mathematics. Assuming his knowledge in other fields is of a similar level, the improvement of our knowledge could be immense," Luwin enthused.

"I was actually studying materials. Metallurgy, you'd probably call it," I said. Both of their eyes lit up. "Ah, but, unlike mathematics, the gains I can provide there are more limited. Imagine if a smith were dropped off into absolute wilderness; he might know some of the theory behind finding the ores, refining them, and then processing the metal but it's a very difficult undertaking. My case is worse; there's a greater distance between what I studied and smithing than there is between smithing and wilderness. I'm used to a level of infrastructure that just isn't likely to be present."

Part of my explanation was _not wanting to do it_. I knew, at least in theory, how to make a blast furnace and Bessemer converter. Between those, that was a good portion of the industrial revolution, though they really needed to be paired with gunpowder-expedited mining to get full impact. But I didn't want to work on those; I didn't want to spend all that time breathing in fumes from molten metals that might contain lead and other nastiness. I didn't want to spend all my time working, rather than figuring out how to use my magic and maybe return home. And until I felt they were honorable and moral enough to deserve it, though Stark was a good ways to showing that, I didn't want to give them such a massive leg up on their competition.

I also knew how to make black powder, including how to manufacture saltpeter as recommended in LeConte's manual, but there was no way I was bringing that up until and unless I thought it appropriate. Beyond that, saltpeter production took at least a year of lead time, which was a lot on just my word. I sure as shit wasn't going to be the one turning over the manure pile, which meant I needed enough credit before I even think of it.

The last popular part of uplift stories I'd read, penicillin, was often achieved far too easily for the authors to be _nearly_ good enough chemists and chemical engineers to _actually_ manage it. Industrial penicillin production is miserably difficult, with yields so low as to make extraction exceptionally difficult, issues maintaining purity which is required for decent shelf-lives, and a high removal rate of penicillin from the body which meant large amounts were needed, or the penicillin needed to be modified for increased residency time. It took years of concentrated effort, a nationwide search for the best penicillin strain, and dedicated teams of chemical engineers to manage to produce enough penicillin to treat more than one or two people at a time within the _entire US_ back in the 1940s. Even knowing the outline of their eventual solutions, I _was_ a good enough chemist and engineer to know I could easily spend my entire life on the effort with nothing to show for it.

So fuck penicillin. I was allergic to that shit anyways.

Honestly, it was a good thing my math was enough to get me residency within Winterfell.


	2. A New Man

**Chapter 2: A New Man**

Eight months later, and I was hardly recognizable as the weak-ass college student that I was on arrival. I spent most of my days training, practicing my martial skills in the yard, exercising my body, honing my magic. And it showed.

I mostly collaborated with Luwin to earn my keep. I introduced him to double entry book-keeping, explained statistical techniques, and found a few loopholes in the tax code that meant Winterfell could have afforded to house, feed and equip a hundred of me and still come out ahead. That pretty much brought me up in status from "free-loading but interesting foreign guest" to "gentleman courtier". Introducing flush toilets, and the rapid and efficient plunger pump to pull water just cemented my position.

They were less enthusiastic about my agricultural revelations, but were at least willing to try them out on fields owned by Lord Stark and worked by peasants as part of their taxes. I had grown up in an agricultural area, and both history and biology classes had made us memorize numerous facts about farming both past and present. I introduced the idea of four field Norfolk crop rotation, which alternated wheat, turnips, barley and clover and more than doubled production compared to a two field system where half the land was fallow at any given time. It was one of the most efficient farming methods available to an unindustrialized agricultural sector, and helped the explosive English population growth that helped make it an empire.

I also introduced the somewhat hardier three field system which could be applied over worse land than you found in England; that used autumn rye or winter wheat and then spring barley or oats in one field, nitrogen fixers like peas, lentils or legumes in the second, and left the third fallow.

Lastly, I gave them the concept of companion planting, where rows of one plant like carrots are alternated with another like onions and the yields of both are improved. I wrote down what I could from the half-remembered vegetable – companion – antagonist charts. The yield from the experimental portion of greenhouse, or "glass gardens" as they called it, had shown a distinct improvement, and Lord Stark had already sent messengers with written guides to inform his banner-men.

My contributions meant that Lord Stark gifted me with a full set of armor, spear, sword, shield and mail. After that I was no longer tooling about with borrowed gear when I trained in the mornings, and Lady Stark was a lot less frostily polite towards me. Part of her warming up, I suspect, came from her childrens' affections too. I helped Luwin tutor them in math and physics, taught them chess, and told them stories that I had read.

Bran, her second son, was nine years old and as unfair as it was, he was my favorite. He loved to climb, and made me tell and re-tell stories of Sun Wukong, King Arthur and Star Wars (the original trilogy, of course). A weird mix, I know, but they were his favorites.

His climbing though scared me to death. Boy would go right up the walls and towers of Winterfell, no harness, no rope. His mother kept trying to get him to stop, but it just didn't work. Other than that, he was the sweetest, best behaved, nicest little brat there ever was, but when it came to climbing he couldn't help himself. It was some sort of compulsion. Personally, I was scared to death of heights, but my brother was a fiend for rock-climbing, went to compete in the US nationals and everything, so I knew a bit about it.

So I talked to Lady Catelyn, and with her support got Mikken, the chief blacksmith, to make some carabiners up. A few straps of leather with some heavy stitching for a harness, some good quality rope, and a bit of instruction and Bran was ready to go. He wasn't willing to risk the punishment rather than take one of the preset routes with fixed belaying points, and proved to be almost creepily responsible when it came to looking after his gear.

After that, well, I think if Lord Stark had tried to get rid of me Lady Catelyn would have had him sleeping by the hearth for a year.

I got along well enough with the other kids. Young Lord Robb was a fine man, friendly and kind, perhaps too much so for a future Lord Paramount of the North. We practiced together, and he was always willing to patiently teach me a trick with the sword. His half-brother, Jon Snow, was of an age with Robb. A little cooler, more stoic and serious, and to be fair a bit broodier, Jon was still unfailing polite and helpful.

As for the girls, Arya was a spitfire. Recently turned ten, she was a total tomboy. Lord Stark said she had a full measure of the wolf's blood, and he wasn't wrong. More than anything, I felt bad for the girl. She just wanted to learn to fight, to ride, joust and hunt like the boys. On modern Earth, she'd have likely represented the US in the Olympics for shooting or fencing, or spent a lifetime hunting. In Westeros, with Lady Catelyn for her mother, she was in a constant war for whatever shreds of independence she could gather and keep.

I was willing to entertain Arya, told her how the most badass archer and swordsman I ever met was a woman. It wasn't a lie, either. Even with a decade more training and magic, I'd hesitate picking a fight with someone like Aya LaBrie; not only was she at the very top of the world when it came to skill, she had that mark of self-determination on her, that she'd accept no future but what she chose. After that, Arya liked me. Still, she was a bit of a hellion, and displayed her affections with pranks and harassment as much as anything else. Unlike Bran, whose only sin was liking high places from which I was all too often sent to fetch him, Arya was trouble.

Sansa was my least favorite of the Starks. It may have been a bit unfair; she was a product of her environment. But since I was reserving judgement on little Rickon, still a toddler, and got on well with all the others, she kind of fell into it. Not that I really _dis_ liked her; it was just that she was so willfully naïve, blinded to the realities of life. Hell, I was always faintly contemptuous of people in the US who didn't really get how bad life could be outside our little islands of civility, not just abroad but even in our own cities.

This girl basically lived in the fucking _middle ages_. Her aunt, Lyanna, was abducted by the previous dynasty's crown prince. When asking for her return, her own grandfather had been burned to death, her uncle strangled as he tried desperately to free his father. When the capital, King's Landing, was sacked the surviving royals suffered their babies skulls dashed against the walls and their women raped to death. How she could buy into the fantasy of courtly knights was beyond me. I guess her make-believe was nicer than the reality, but if her illusions were ever shattered it was likely to be _ugly_ and I wasn't convinced Lord and Lady Stark could keep her sheltered forever.

That said, my least favorite of the members of the Stark _household_ was that shit, Greyjoy. He just rubbed me in all the wrong ways, and reminded me of every character flaw I'd seen as part of a frat rolled into one odious jackass. In a nutshell, he was an arrogant, insecure, aggressive, sexist, classist, drunk, whoremongering, dishonest little shit, and proud of it. It didn't help that he felt threatened by me and kept picking fights. One time he even kicked my dog; I beat him bloody, then unconscious in the training yard, and warned him that if he fucked with me _one more time_ I'd leave him a permanent cripple. He pissed blood for a month, and after that, we didn't interact much. I preferred it that way.

Although I spent a goodly amount of time with the Starks or Luwin, I spent most of it training. When I arrived, I was a decent martial artist. Technically, my skills were actually pretty good. Physically, I had put on the freshman fifteen and was far from the shape I'd been in when I was competing. Other than fists, I could swing a pretty mean staff, and was beginning to hit the point of being a competitive archer. In other words, compared to the local soldiery, I was fucking chaff to be thrashed.

Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms, had brought me up from that point to being an objectively good fighter. My first and greatest focus was on the bow, which he couldn't help much with. I knew though that archery was the best way to kill people in battle, or to feed myself in a forest, assassinate some fucker, basically any situation my first go-to was going to be my bow. I already knew how to work on accuracy. I knew how English archers used their back and front-arm to push, allowing them to use bows with higher pull weights. I knew how Mongol master archers gripped the string with their thumbs, how they could hold more arrows between their fingers to allow for a faster reload. All the rest was practice, and I spent enough time on the range to be among the best archers of the North. Of course, my bow helped but more on that later.

Apart from the bow though I needed a lot of teaching. Teaching which Ser Rodrik was, thankfully, willing to provide. By the end of the eight months and the approach of the Royal visit, I was about as good as an inexperienced knight with my spear. I picked a spear to focus on since I was a firm believer that every inch of reach counted. I could match experienced guardsmen with sword or sword and shield, and I was a decent rider, about as good as a common guardsman when fighting on horseback, and a proficient mounted archer.

I knew my history, after all; a good mounted archer is _always_ the most lethal soldier on the battlefield.

Ser Rodrik thought I was some kind of prodigy for learning all of that so quickly. Eight months, after all, was a _very_ short time to turn someone from inexperienced into a match for the typical man-at-arms with years of training and experience. Honestly, I was talented. I already had a lot of the principles, the footwork, the reaction time from my karate background. But that wouldn't have been nearly enough.

No, I cheated like _crazy_ with my magic. And that was definitely the biggest change between my arrival and then. I was a fantasy nerd suddenly given access to magic; of _course_ I abused the hell out of it.

First I ended up figuring out the general scheme behind my magic. It worked by my bonding with the land. Different types of land provided different types of magical energy, _mana_ , which I classified by color. They didn't actually have color, but felt like that color, if that makes sense? It's hard to explain, like color to a blind man. Nonetheless, there were five colors.

Green, which I had bound on arrival, was the color of nature, wildlife, the inter-connectivity of life, spirituality. It was good for improving living things, wood, animals, even myself. It could be found in forests and other wilderness that was full of life. I resonated very well with Green, which meant I could bind forests faster and use the mana more efficiently than otherwise.

White, which was the most available in the settled regions near Winterfell, was the color of peace, law, structure, selflessness and society. It was good for direct healing, protection, and imposing order and bonds. It could be found in cities, towns, and castles like Winterfell as well as managed plains; basically anywhere that was full of order or humanity. I resonated reasonably well with White.

Blue, available in the Winterfell library and Maester Luwin's turret, was the color of knowledge, deceit, caution, deliberation, and perfection. It was good for gaining knowledge, seeing the future, improving thought, and interacting with arcane energies. So far I had only found it available in libraries and other places of scholarly pursuit, but I had hopes for sufficiently large bodies of water to provide it as well. A devoted student and seeker of knowledge, it was unsurprising that I resonated best with Blue mana.

Black, available in the Winterfell Crypts and Lichyard, was the color of raw power, self-interest, death, sacrifice, and uninhibited action. It was good for aging things, curses, maledictions, and receiving gain from pain, whether that of others or yourself. I resonated the least with this color, taking at least twice as long to make gains with it as I did with Green or Blue.

Red, available in the Winterfell Hot-Springs and the Broken Tower which had been struck by lightning, was the color of freedom, emotion, activity, impulsiveness and destruction. It was good for raw power, speed and destructiveness. I resonated fairly well with it, my massive love for my own freedom overcoming my reservations to causing senseless destruction while in an emotional fit.

Mana seemed to be fairly discretized as well. When riding in the Wolfswood, I had practiced bonding to the land and found that there was a certain minimum area of land that would be bound at a time. I decided to standardize the output of one minimum region of standard land as one mana. Certain special locations, such as the Godswood, provided a higher energy density.

In all, I had bound four green mana, six white, two blue, two black, and two red. It sufficed for most any spell I had developed, especially since many spells required a specific amount of colored mana only to define the spell-structure. The remainder could then be powered by taking a different mana and removing the overlay of color, turning it into raw magical energy which could be fed into the spell.

The first spell I developed was accidental, the regeneration effect that came when I first arrived on Westeros and bound the Godswood. Within a short time I could recreate the effect at will. The second was not a proper spell at all, but rather an application of magical energy. I spent a _lot_ of time practicing karate, and that included meditation techniques. I didn't know on earth whether ki was a thing or not. But real or not, those who practiced those techniques ended up with greater body control. There were dozens of possible explanations for that, most of which I didn't care about; it worked after all, and that slight edge when you're competing was the difference between victory and defeat, so I practiced it.

On Westeros, with magical energies, it wasn't surprising that the first thing I'd really think to try would be to use those self-same techniques to slowly bind mystical energies to myself. I tried to be somewhat balanced in my application, though did end up favoring Green twice as much and Blue one and a half times as much as I did Red, White and Black.

From Green, I developed a stronger, faster, tougher body with improved regeneration. By working out and repairing myself with magic, I had grown my natural physique to match veteran knights. With my cultivation technique, that was boosted to the point that I was one of the strongest men in Westeros. Maybe not as strong as the Mountain, but I was likely a fair match for his brother, the Hound.

I improved my thoughts to be faster, slightly precognitive, and with an improved sense for mana by cultivating Blue. With Red, I gained faster reactions and a slightly explosive increase in power when hitting someone. White gave me a small store of healing energy that would automatically activate to heal crippling wounds. Black, ironically, was used to keep me healthy, its energies primed to attack foreign diseases and toxins.

For my spells, I used my small set of healing magics the most frequently. I could mend wounds with White energy, imbue life-force with either White or a mixture of White and Green, and give myself an energizer better than a half-dozen shots of coffee with either White or Green.

That said, the greatest _number_ of my spells were buffs. Regeneration and bark-skin saw a lot of use, and used Green. Destined Shot, a type of fated reversion of causality allowed for "the target is hit" to causally precede "the arrow is shot". Like Combat Precognition, it used Blue Mana. Out of combat, Blue also helped me Improve Recall and perform Thought Acceleration.

With White added to Blue I could manage Mage-Sight, which so far had only been useful to see the magical energy of my own spells but might prove useful in the future. Another White/Blue spell was Temporary Photographic Memory, which was great to memorize Luwin's texts on heraldry, plants, animals, and maps. With Green added in, I could do a Temporary Permanent Muscle Memory, which massively sped up my training. My most complicated spell to date combined White for protection and structure, Blue for analysis, and Red for energy to create an anti-Arrow Ward which could then be sustained with colorless mana. With Red mana I had a single spell, Haste, which improved reaction and movement speed.

Black had no buffs as yet, but did provide for my sole curse, which I called Wither. Red provided all of my evocation or combat spells, including Burning Touch (which was also good for lighting campfires) and Shock, which was basically a taser bolt. Combined with Blue, I could manage the iconic Magic Missile, a homing bolt of reasonably destructive anti-personnel blasting, but the damage and single shot was too limited for my desires of dakka. I'd been fairly limited with my evocations, since I didn't want to _obviously_ and impossibly out myself as a mage to the Starks, so I only practiced what I could manage safely.

I also had some utility spells. Grow Straight Arrow used Green and White to get a tree to grow a perfect arrow shaft. Process Arrow used Black and Red to age the arrow-wood. But the utility spell I used most was definitely Hygiene. A mix of White and Red, it cleaned dirt, restored clothes, brushed teeth, and generally allowed me to maintain the level of cleanliness I had come to expect from the twenty-first century Earth. Other than that, I also used a White-Red spell to gather water moisture from the air, making clean water for me to drink.

But for my true masterpieces of magic, I had to point to my pets. Companions, really, by that point.

Togo was my dog, a local breed that resembled a husky. I named him after the famous sled-dog that was the lead for the longest leg of an emergency medicine delivery to Alaska. I love dogs. We always had at least one when I was growing up, often two or three. I was homesick, and I wanted a friend who'd have my back whatever happened; dogs are great for that. But I didn't just want a dog; I had magic. I wanted a _super-dog_.

So I got Togo as a young puppy, and began experimenting with him, adding Green mana to improve him physically, Blue to improve him mentally, White to create a familiar bond, Red to sheathe his claws and fangs in destructive energies that allowed them to tear through steel armor. Something about the Green mana, especially how it interacted with him as a puppy, made Togo develop gigantism. I'll admit to a bit of culpability myself; my favorite dogs at home had both been around a hundred and twenty pounds, little of it fat.

Northern Mountain Dogs, the type of breed that Togo belonged too, only grew up to sixty to eighty pounds, and I guess my desire for a slightly larger dog affected the magic. Togo was already closing in on five hundred pounds, about the size of a large-ish tiger, and he wasn't done growing yet. By the time he was, he was probably going to come in at around six hundred pounds, maybe a bit more. Luckily the Mana seemed to have modified his biology, optimizing it and improving it to support his now massive frame. It also made him even stronger, faster and most importantly _tougher_ than any natural creature, even one his size, had a right to be.

At some point during his modification, something had clicked and since then Togo was nearly totally reactive to my will; that was _definitely_ a good thing, considering I'd seen him take down a bear neat as you please. I was still figuring out how to give him the ability to communicate with me, beyond his expressive body language.

I also had a horse, Aethon. He was a tawny gelding who I'd named after some divine horses from Greek mythology. Aethon was already an adult when I was given him. Like Togo, I slowly and repetitively channeled Green, Blue, White and Red mana into him. However, where Togo was about three Green to one Blue to one White to one Red, Aethon was about two Green to one Blue to two White to one Red. The White made Aethon calmer, which was definitely necessary considering he too had near-human intelligence, but unlike Togo couldn't follow me about for entertainment.

Ridiculously swift and surefooted, he could canter all day at twenty five miles per hour, and could reach speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour in a sprint. He was a beautiful, glossy creature, and was kept that way without any effort on my part after I figured out how to enchant him to have an ever-clean coat. Every single member of the castle who had seen me riding on him, practicing my horse archery or just racing Togo for the joy of it, was _deeply_ jealous.

I had already gotten requests for me to "see to" other peoples' horses, which I'd so far brushed off, but I was just waiting until Arya, or Robb, or hell, Lord Stark, decided that they'd _really appreciate_ my treating their mounts to the same process. Honestly, Togo and his gigantism had kind of fucked things up for me staying subtle, and appearing non-magical, but once I'd started I just didn't have the heart to stop until he was the best dog he could be. I even got a little attached to Togo being ridiculously oversized compared to, well, _everything_. So when the kids got direwolf puppies (because _that_ was going to end well) I decided to pump Togo up a little more. He didn't get much larger, but he did get more muscular, stronger, faster. I had no doubt who the top dog of Winterfell was, and nor did anyone else.

Between Togo, Aethon, and the fact I was always clean, there were persistent rumors that I was a wizard, a warg, a child of the forest (despite my being over six foot two, practically a giant in a middle-ages society), the child of an Old-God, and so on and so forth. The last of those rumors hadn't been helped when I went into the Godswood and came out with a legendary-quality weirwood bow.

I had been meditating near the Heart tree, as I was wont to do, and thinking about what my perfect bow would be like. Heavily recurved to allow me to shoot from horseback, a hundred and sixty pound draw weight to take advantage of my new strength, when I wanted it to the bow's flexion increased by Green mana and the arrow given an extra push with Red for maximum penetration, the bow guiding the hand of the archer by a Blue enchantment bound into the bow.

I didn't realize it until I was nearly done, but I had been channeling those mana while thinking about the bow, and when I was done if fell off the weirwood fully formed. I called it the Wyrdwood bow, and I had been unable to recreate the phenomenon of its creation. That said, it was the most amazing piece of archery equipment I'd ever seen or heard of, capable of lofting an arrow into a man-sized target at over five hundred yards. Between it and my mobility atop Aethon, I had little fear for most fights I was likely to end up in.

And then my first eight months on Westeros came to a close as the King came visiting to Winterfell.


	3. Royal Visit pt 1

**Chapter 3: Royal Visit pt. 1**

The arrival of the royal party was quite the sight. Hundreds of riders came through Winterfell's gates in a panoply of color and noise. Steel clad knights and riders in plate and mail and leather, tabards of Lannister red and gold and Baratheon yellow and black popping among more subdued blues, blacks, greys and greens.

Among the riders some stood out. One, arrogant but in incredibly fine armor with golden hair and a white cloak must have been Ser Jaime Lannister. Another, one of the largest men I'd seen since my arrival and with a horrifically burnt face could only be Sandor Clegane, the Hound. And at the very front, a massive middle aged man rode. He had obviously gone to seed in his later years, fattened by food and drink and a lack of exercise, but he carried his bulk with an ease that spoke to the muscles hidden by his fat. He was like a middle aged construction worker, heavyset but still strong and capable of smacking some young such-and-such about if needed.

Honestly, to my eyes the procession looked gaudy as hell, and reminded me of nothing more than when I was a child, vacationing in a town in France when a motorcycle gang rolled through. I knew, academically, what a motorcycle gang was, what they had done in previous decades, but hadn't realized that such gangs existed into modern times. I thought it was a historical reenactment, a hobby group taking themselves far too seriously. Luckily, as everyone around me fell silent I held my laughter until they had passed. These Westerosi reminded me of that. Taking themselves far too seriously for how ridiculous their pageantry was, but lethally serious if crossed.

I was stood off to the side with a collection of Northern Lords and their families and retainers who had journeyed to Winterfell to take part in the celebrations surrounding the King's visit. Winterfell was about fifteen hundred miles from the capital, and it was rare for a Northern Lord to make that journey. The king's visit represented the greatest Northern access to the Royal Court _ever_ in the Seven Kingdoms' history, and hundreds of Northerners had flocked to the fortress bearing gifts of food and wine so as to ease Winterfell's burden.

King Robert came to a stop near Lord Stark and his family, then leapt off his force and picked the smaller man up in a bear hug. Looking at him next to Stark he must have been at least a couple inches taller than me.

"Ned! It is so good to see that frozen face of yours!" he boomed with a laugh. "You have not changed one bit."

Lord Stark, ever serious, simply replied, "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

I waited bored as the queen descended from her monstrosity of a wheelhouse, and graciously allowed Lord Stark to kneel and kiss her ring. I was faintly pissed off by her adherence to custom when her husband treated my benefactor like a brother. In fact, with my read on Westerosi culture, the queen should have taken her husband's lead. If Robert felt Ned was his brother, then she should have done so too.

Clearly the antagonism between the Starks and Lannisters was more than rumors. And that made me nervous. Robert wasn't just here for a visit; his previous Hand, a sort of Prime Minister who was a father figure to both Robert and Ned, had died. And unless I missed my guess, Robert was here to get Lord Stark to fill those shoes.

I knew enough history to understand how risky court could be, especially if the Lannisters had been even slightly intelligent with how they used their legendary wealth. Given Lord Tywin Lannister's reputation, I doubted that the man had been anything less than _fully_ intelligent. It was obvious from the body language that the prince, Joffrey, favored his mother, and that could put the Starks in a very awkward situation.

The greeting party broke up as the king and Lord Stark left for the crypts to pay their respects to Lyanna, Eddard's younger sister, the king's betrothed, and the woman whose abduction launched a revolution. I went to the stables to fetch Togo and Aethon, already saddled and with bow and arrow in their holsters; the castle had nearly quadrupled in population with the arrival of the king's party and the Northmen come to pay court to him, and the larders needed filling.

That night there was a true medieval feast for the king's arrival. Dozens of courses, dancers, singers and other entertainment. It lasted for hours, and for all that the Lannister aligned knights spoke that the queen or Tywin had organized better, it was the most extravagant event I'd ever been part of. That said, I kept my wine consumption reasonable, used magic to keep a clear head, and paid attention.

I owed the Starks a lot, their lord in particular. He'd taken me in, allowed me to gain position, a modicum of wealth and knowledge. But as much as I respected him as a man and a lord, he was gods-awful when it came to subterfuge and politics. Spoiled by his distance from the king's court, and paramount within his own territory, Stark had allowed whatever sense he'd ever had for intrigue to atrophy. I could at the very least stay sober enough to have his back in whatever way possible.

Most of the way through the meal I saw Jon storm out of the hall after talking with Benjen Stark, Eddard's brother and a Ranger with the Night's Watch. Jon was sat at the lower tables with landless knights, squires of middling rank and the like, and had been drinking heavily. I laughed heartily at a neighbor's joke, patted my stomach and stood up.

"On that note, my good sers, I need a piss. If you'll excuse me," I announced, pretending to be more in my cups than I was. I then walked out of the hall and looked for Jon outside.

The damned fool had probably been trying to convince Benjen to help him argue on his behalf in Jon's half-witted desire to freeze his balls off with the Night's Watch, half of whom were convicts and all of whom swore vows of poverty and chastity. The boy was fifteen still, and even if he was almost sixteen it was still far too early to take life-long oaths. But like all youths, he knew best and had likely reacted poorly to something Benjen said.

I found Jon talking with Tyrion Lannister, the dwarfish brother to Cersei and Jaime Lannister and at least _in theory_ the heir to the Lannister seat. That was, if his father couldn't get Jaime released from his vows as a Kingsguard, yet another order with vows of chastity. Honestly, the Westerosi seemed all too fond of those.

Tyrion was playing with Ghost, Jon's direwolf puppy that he'd rescued some two months prior, and trying to get Jon to see how unreasonable his brooding was. I knew better than to bother with something like that; he was a drunk teenager, after all. Even if he _didn't_ have legitimate gripes, he'd certainly feel like he did, and to be fair his life was difficult with Catelyn's hostility. Being a bastard in Westeros was _hard_ , even a lord's bastard, with the Blackfyres and their rebellion having tainted the concept throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

That was the main reason I'd abstained from sex, after all. I didn't want my children to have to face that kind of onus, and I wasn't going to marry and stay there forever. One day, somehow, I'd return home. Marriage would get in the way of that.

After Tyrion left, I approached.

"What's up, Jon," I said, patting him on the shoulder and giving him a boost of regeneration to sober him up. I'd been slowly getting them used to my modern expressions. Generally the kids found it amusing, but I didn't get a response. "Well, if nothing's up then what's down?"

Jon snorted. "You're not funny, you know," he said, sitting on the ground and ruffling Ghost's ears.

"And yet I amuse myself," I said. "Which, in the end, is all that really matters."

He shot me a dark look. "Come to give me advice too?"

"No," I said bluntly. He looked a bit taken aback. "My advice is valuable, and you're in no mood to listen."

"I suppose I'm not," Jon admitted. He was a good kid, if a bit full of himself.

"Instead, I came to give you an alternative. Unless I miss my guess, we're headed to King's Landing after the king convinces your father to take on the duties of the Hand. And it's likely I'll follow your father there. Enter into my service, and come with me as my companion. I've enough money to pay you decently, with the stipend your father gave me."

"I do not need your pity, Oddyseus," he said despondently.

"Pity?" I repeated. "No, Jon. It's not pity, or charity. You're a hard worker, clever, and already better with a sword than most of the fighters here. Most of all, you're loyal and I know that so long as I remain true to your family, something I have every intention of doing, that you'll be a true friend to me."

"If I'm so great, why won't Uncle Benjen take me with him to the Watch?" he griped.

"Because for all your good qualities, you're a moody teen and the Wall is full enough of the grim and dour," I said sarcastically. "You Uncle is doubtless hoping that someone will teach you humor before you end up there. Ah, there we go, I saw your lips twitch."

"You're still not funny, Odds," he said.

"Well maybe you can help me with that too then. So what do you say?" I extended my arm.

After a moment's consideration he took it. "But this isn't forever," he said. "If in a year or two, I still want to join the Watch, you'll let me."

"Of course," I replied with a grin. "If after a couple of years I can't convince you that it would be better to stay part of civilization, that your family can use you better here than there, then you can join the Watch with my blessing. Though I'll follow you the whole way there trying to convince you otherwise."

Jon laughed softly. "Thank you, Odds."

"No, Jon. Thank you."

The next afternoon I went in search of Lord Stark to give him the news. I found him in his solar with King Robert, drinking and chatting.

"Ah, my lord, Your Grace, I hope I'm not interrupting," I said after entering.

"No, no, I'm monopolizing Ned's time enough as it is. He still has a keep to run, after all," Robert said boisterously. "And who might you be?"

"This is Odysseus Gangari, Robert," Lord Stark said.

"Ah, the traveler who found his way to the Godswood!" the king boomed. He'd obviously never gotten the trick to the _inside voice_. "Eddard's told me all about you. Apparently you're the one who figured out how to reduce Winterfell's taxes?"

Ah, shit. Hopefully he wasn't upset about that. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Good, good. Ned's always been too _honorable_ for that sort of thing, but when everyone else does it then it just means he ends up getting taken advantage of. Hell, I barely pay attention to my Master of Coin, and I still know at least that much."

"May I say that is quite an _enlightened_ attitude, Your Grace," I said smiling.

"Ha! Enlightened, he says. I like that," he laughed, smiling. "No, you keep serving your Lord faithfully and you will be just fine as far as I'm concerned, Odysseus. Gods know he spends enough time looking after everyone else that he needs more people to look after him."

I couldn't help myself, and burst into laughter. He might not be a good king, but I was definitely liking Robert as a man. "Indeed, Your Grace. You clearly know our Lord well."

"This is entirely unfair, Robert. I can't have you turning my own men against me," Eddard stated dryly.

"No, no. I wouldn't dare, Ned. But come, Odysseus. Have a seat. I hear you're quite the rider, the fastest in the North Ned tells me."

"Thank you, Your Grace. But I'm not that good a rider. Rather it's my horse, Aethon. He's a wonder. I'd bet every coin I have on him in a race."

"You'll have to show him off when we go hunting then. That monster of a dog is yours as well, isn't it?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"An incredible animal. When I first heard of it I wondered if someone had managed to tame the father of the direwolf pups that the children have."

"No, Your Grace, Togo's a Northern Mountain Dog, just one that seems to have grown beyond the bounds of normal dogs in much the same way I suspect that the Mountain grew beyond the bounds of normal men," I dissembled. "That, or he's been blessed by the Old Gods," I said in a somewhat joking tone.

"Still, a most impressive beast. Well, I've taken up enough of your time. You had some business with Ned?"

"Yes, thank you Your Grace. My lord," I said, turning to the Stark, "I'm not sure if Jon's told you, but he's agreed to enter my service as my companion for a time. Assuming, of course, that it meets with your approval."

He looked me in the eyes for a moment, then nodded. "I hadn't heard yet, but Benjen did tell me that he seemed overly keen to join the Watch. Thank you, Odysseus."

"No, my lord, you shouldn't thank me. Jon's a good lad, and I'm sure I'll get more work out of him than he does me."

"Nonetheless. For all that he is not trueborn, he is my son, and I didn't want him joining the Watch before he was truly an adult. If that was all?"

"Yes, my lord. Your Grace, it was truly a pleasure to meet you," I said as I rose and bowed.

"Likewise, likewise. And I expect you up bright and early the day after tomorrow, Odysseus. I want to see you, your horse and dog in action for myself."

"Of course, Your Grace," I said with a smile. "I wouldn't miss it."


	4. Royal Visit pt 2

**Chapter 4: Royal Visit pt. 2**

The next day when I finished with my archery practice and moved to the yard where Ser Rodrick taught the guardsmen and boys, I came just in time to catch a scene between Robb and Joffrey.

Ser Rodrick was trying to get them to have another practice bout. Apparently Robb had won the last one, and Joffrey, a spoiled little shit in general and a poor loser to boot, decided to fight with his words rather than a blade. Objectively, it was actually a bit cunning. Within the social context, it was weasel-y. Knowing that Ser Rodrick would never allow the heir to the Iron Throne and the heir to the North to fight with live steel, Joffrey asked for just that.

I saw the flash of fear in his eyes when Ser Rodrick allowed them to use tourney swords, with blunted edges, rather than the weighted wood they'd used previously. Taken aback, the scarred Hound came to his rescue.

"This is your prince!" he said. "Who are you to say he cannot have a sword with an edge, ser?" His tone was derisive, combative.

"I'm Winterfell's master-at-arms, Clegane," Ser Rodrick said. He had spent time in southern courts, and knew how biting that address wass, the pointed emphasis on how Clegane was no knight. "You would do well to remember it."

Honestly, Ser Rodrick was in the right. He was in charge of the training grounds, and brooking his authority was _incredibly_ rude. Lord Stark would think twice before doing so, let alone some unblooded blonde shit who wasn't even fifteen yet, or said shit's sworn shield. Clegane knew better, but of course that was the point.

"Are you training men here, or women?" he demanded. I watched on in interest, prepared to intervene if Ser Rodrick seemed to be losing. It wouldn't do for the Starks to be walked over in their own castle.

"I am training knights," Rodrick said, again pointing out Clegane's lack of title. "They can use live steel once they're of age and ready for it."

Realizing that he was losing against Rodrick, Clegane turned to Robb. "How old are you, boy?"

"You'd do well to keep a civil tongue in your head, Clegane," I interrupted loudly. I had my bow to hand, my other hand hovering above my quiver. I was some thirty yards away, and a bit of magic to speed myself could have a half dozen arrows in Clegane before he crossed half that distance. Togo, my massively oversized wolf-like dog stood next to me, his hackles raised.

Clegane realized things were going poorly, but didn't want to back down. He had his pride. "Bah. I killed a man at twelve, and here the future Lord Stark hides behind some archer and his pet wolf."

I wasn't about to let Robb get drawn in. "Togo's a Northern Mountain Dog, actually, and clearly cleverer than the other pet hound in this yard," I goaded. "But since you have such disdain for the tourney blade, I propose a bout, Clegane. I'll have a tourney blade. You can use whatever weapon you like. We start off in the most realistic conditions possible for being off of the battlefield; eight feet apart, with our weapons sheathed. Unless you can only bark, that is?"

"You'll wish you hadn't said that," he warned me.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Ser Rodrick warned me as I approached. He knew I was planning _something_ , that strong and fast as I was I wouldn't be facing Clegane with a sword if I didn't have some sort of plan. I smiled at him

"Jon, come here," I called out. I handed him my bow and arrows, my knife, and my sword. Then I went over to the weapons rack and picked out a tourney blade. I went over to Ser Rodrick, who was overseeing the bout.

The Hound was in a brigandine with plate protecting his neck, shoulders and arms. His helmet, fashioned as a snarling dog, was actually quite imposing. I took up a wide-legged stance, sheathe in my left hand, right hand hovering over the blade, ready to draw while lunging forward. Clegane braced himself, shield forward, hand ready to draw his arming sword.

"This bout, between Odysseus Gangari and Sandor Clegane, will end on my signal, on a surrender, or when one of the competitors is unconscious," Ser Rodrick announced. There were a four Winterfell guardsmen waiting to help him pull us off of each other if necessary. I will count to three, then drop this stone. When it hits the ground, the match has begun. Do you understand?"

"I do," I answered clearly. My blood was up, my adrenaline pumping. I prepared the links to my mana.

"I do," Clegane growled darkly.

"Very well. One," Ser Rodrick announced.

I pumped myself with a temporary strengthening of Green, toughened my defenses with Bark-skin.

"Two." I channeled Blue, accelerating my thoughts and giving myself an edge of combat precognition.

"Three." Now it was Red, hastening myself to move faster, react just that fraction of a second before my foe.

Rodrick dropped the stone. I saw it hit the ground. Clegane's muscles tensed as he began to draw the sword.

It was too slow. I dropped my blade as I lunged. He hadn't been expecting that, and I covered the gap too fast for him to react before I had gripped the bottom of his shield. I yanked up, exposing his legs. Then I stepped to the side of his body with my right leg, drove my right arm forwards under the shield into the chest while my left dropped, pulling on his left leg. It was a textbook perfect karate technique, and Clegane was totally unprepared for it.

He fell onto his back, slightly stunned, sword still half drawn. I didn't give him any time to react, gripping onto his lower left leg with both hands and rotating it to flip him onto his stomach. I twisted viciously and pulled, dislocating his knee.

"Ssstttt-" I heard Ser Rodrick begin to shout.

As he pushed his head up in agony, drawing breath to scream I stood up, drew my leg back, and smashed the armored toe of my boot into his helmet strong enough to cave in the side of the metal plates.

"oooppp!" Ser Rodrick finished as Clegane fell limp to the yard's sand. "Odysseus Gangari wins. You there, fetch Maester Luwin."

"Thank you, Ser Rodrick," I said, backing away. The Lannisters and other sycophants around the prince seemed stunned. "And I hope everyone has learned a valuable lesson. That every weapon, whether the sharpest steel or the bluntest fist, is capable of defeating your foes if used with skill. Were this a true fight, Clegane would be dead."

I took back my equipment from Jon, fastening it to my belts and straps as they processed.

"You cheated. You cheated! What kind of swordsman doesn't fight with a sword!" Joffrey shouted out.

"Ser Rodrick, did I break the rules?" I asked the knight.

"No, Odysseus, you didn't," he replied, a wide smile beneath his mustache.

"So I didn't cheat. And Clegane said it in the beginning, Prince Joffrey. I'm an archer. Had I actually been _fighting_ , I'd have put a half dozen arrows through him before you could blink. That is, after all, the best way to put down any dog that thinks to bite the hands that I protect. Come on, Jon, Togo. I think that was enough excitement for the day."

We left as the crowd broke into excited murmuring.

Once we were far enough away, I turned to Jon.

"You know, that was my first real life-and-death fight?"

I'm not sure why, but we both burst into laughter.

The next day found Clegane still unconscious, and dozens of riders prepared to go out on a hunt. I was atop Aethon, Togo on my side, my bow and a few dozen arrows on the saddle. The king, also mounted, spotted me and called me over.

"Odysseus, come, ride with us!" He was accompanied by his son, Joffrey, Lord Stark, Robb, Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and a handful of other nobles and knights I didn't recognize. Joffrey greeted me with a sneer, and not for the first time I wondered how the hell he was such a blond, pretty-boy shit when his father was such an exuberant bear of a man.

Aethon trotted over, and then the king noticed something strange.

"By the Gods, you don't have any reins!" he exclaimed.

I smiled. "No, Aethon is too clever for me to subject him to those," I said. Aethon snorted and tossed his head in agreement.

"Amazing. And he just knows where you want to go?"

"Yes, Your Grace. In my homeland, the pinnacle of cavalry has long been considered the horse archer. The mobility combined with the ranged power, and the extra arrows a mounted archer can carry make them worth more than an entire lance of armored knights. But the bow requires both hands to use, so the horses have to be trained to fight without the reins." That was all true, and all bullshit. Aethon didn't need reins because he was my familiar, and he was clever enough to do the actual steering part of riding for me.

"An entire lance? Surely not," one of the knights questioned.

I pointed to some trees about four hundred meters distant. "See those trees? Your Grace, would you care to give me a count of the seconds after I begin to draw my first arrow, to see how quickly I can shoot ten of them off?"

"Alright," he said somewhat confused. Then I took out the bow and unlatched one of my arrow bags. I stood up in the stirrups, placed a handful of arrows in my hand, nocked the first, and took a deep breath. A true expert archer, without supernatural assistance, could fire twenty arrows a minute, or one every three seconds. Lars Anderson from Earth, a lunatic Dane who spent far too much time on archery, could do ten arrows in just under _five seconds_. I wasn't that good, though I was training with some of the concepts he proposed in mind. But with Haste and all my other combat boosts to help me, I thought as I activated them, I didn't need to be.

With the energy from the temporary buffs running through my veins I started. One, two, three, four, five arrows. I knew without looking they were hits, reached forwards to the take the arrows held ready in my bow hand, transferring them to my draw hand, then continued. Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.

"Time!" I called out.

"Five seconds. Gods be good that was fast," Robert said, stunned. "I want to see how many you hit, but even if they missed that would be brutal to a formation. And you can manage that at a canter?" the king asked.

"Not quite as quickly. It would take me six or seven seconds at a canter, and my accuracy suffers slightly. Only two in three arrows would hit a man sized target at that range were I cantering across their front," I replied.

"Ha!" the bulky man scoffed. "Only two in three would hit a man, he says. Ser Barristan, how far do you make that?"

"A shade over four hundred paces, Your Grace," the knight replied.

"If one in three arrows could hit at four hundred yards I'd be impressed, Odysseus. I can see how your people would value horse archers so highly. Unless they were pinned, they'd be absolutely murderous on open terrain. Even sending light cavalry to chase them wouldn't work, the horses would just be shot out from under them. I'd guess they were worth what, twenty to fifty times their number in infantry?"

"If used against infantry in the simplest fashion, yes Your Grace. But commanders would often send a company of the horse archers forward first. As they got to be close to the enemy, but still outside of the range of thrown weapons, the company would split, breaking left and right before turning back, shooting all the while. Then as the infantry's formation was damaged, the lancers positioned a few dozen paces behind the horse archers would finish their charge, breaking the enemy. The archers could draw their spears, and join the pursuit as light cavalry or continue on to break another formation. Used that way, properly supported by other cavalry, they were worth twice what they were alone."

"Amazing. I suppose I should be glad your home is so far away; if your siegecraft is half as good as your field armies then I worry we wouldn't be able to win a war!" He was smiling, but it was a true sentiment. The Westerosi weren't exactly the most sophisticated combatants, with more in common with medieval France or the Holy Roman Empire than a truly efficient military.

Then we came up to my targets. I'd missed one of the arrows, but the other nine had hit trees next to each other, one by one. I grinned while the king whistled at how deep the arrows had penetrated.

"Damn. I think you may have lost these arrows," he said.

"It's no matter, Your Grace. I'm glad my demonstration interested you."

"Interested me? I have half a mind to give you a commission to raise a company of your horse archers, but Ned's already made me agree not to poach you without both your agreement and his. Hells, I thought I was tempted to take you into my service after I heard how you beat Clegane; not many could manage that."

Robert was obviously hinting that if I wanted to, I could petition Lord Stark to allow me to enter the king's service. If I was truly a local, or didn't have my magic, I'd be tempted. But in the end, I owed the Starks, and my place was not in this land.

"Sadly, Your Grace, Lord Stark found me first," I deadpanned. Robert burst out into laughter, and Lord Stark even cracked a bit of a smile.

"Well, I think everyone's had enough time to get themselves sorted. Shall we be off?" Robert asked. As the rest of our party agreed, he motioned to his squire, another Lannister, who brought up a horn to his lips and blew the beginning of the hunt.

"What would you like to hunt, Your Grace?" Eddard questioned. "My huntsmen reported signs for both deer and boar in the area."

"Hmm. It would be excellent to have a nice roast boar," the king mused. "I think that, if we can find it."

"I have full faith in Odysseus' abilities, Your Grace. Or at least in Togo's nose," Ned replied.

"Oh, that's not fair. Now you're just teasing me," Robert complained.

"Go on then, Togo. Find us some nice boar."

We had just killed and butchered the first boar, a large male, when the riders found us.

Bran had fallen from the Broken Tower.


	5. Royal Visit pt 3

**Chapter 5: Royal Visit pt. 3**

"Your Grace, if you will excuse us," I said quickly. "Lord Stark, Aethon can make it back faster than any other, even with a second rider."

"Your Grace…" Eddard started to say, the worry obvious in his voice.

"Go Ned, go!" the king shouted. "We'll be right behind you."

"Hold on tight, my lord," I instructed. "Aethon, back to Winterfell, fast as you can."

And that was _fast_. Twenty plus miles per hour in relatively dense forest was fucking terrifying, and I knew I'd likely survive the impact long enough to heal. Lord Stark though paid it no mind, all his focus on returning as quickly as possible to see to his son. Twenty some minutes later we reached Winterfell and thundered through the gates.

"Guardsman, where's my son!" Ned shouted as we came in.

"The Maester is seeing him in your son's room, milord," the man answered.

Eddard literally ran to Bran's room. Togo and I followed on his heels. As we came to the room itself, I told Togo to wait outside then followed Ned in. I wanted to try healing Bran. It might make my magic public, but I was willing to risk it if it meant saving his life. The Starks were crowded around the bed, Maester Luwin still seeing to Bran.

"Maester, how is he?" Lord Stark asked.

"As I was just telling Lady Stark, not well. His legs and lower spine are shattered, and the blow to the head has caused significant swelling. Even if he survives, and wakes, he may never be the same. It will be a miracle if he walks again."

Damn. That was bad; if there was bleeding inside his brain… I needed to act immediately.

"If you're not doing something useful, clear the room," I ordered. A few servants left, but that still meant that there were a couple assisting Maester Luwin and the Starks themselves left over. "Maester Luwin, a word if you please." He looked up from treating Bran, incredulous that I would interrupt him. Then he considered my sometimes superior knowledge, and came over.

"I _think_ I can help," I said softly. "But I won't be using physical knowledge, if you grasp my meaning."

"Magic, you mean? I don't know of any that still works in this age."

I grimaced. I hated blowing away even the fig-leaf that I wasn't a mage.

"I can. You've seen Togo, and Aethon. I can attempt to use similar techniques to heal Bran," I offered.

He frowned. "What would you say the odds were?" he asked.

"Honestly? Sixty to eighty percent. I can't tell before I inspect him, and I've never tried to fix something so badly damaged," I replied.

He sighed. "It's better than anything I can manage," he admitted. Then, he clapped his hands and spoke louder. "Everyone except for Odysseus, Lord and Lady Stark, please leave." When people seemed to be waiting for something else, he spoke again, harder this time. "Now, please."

Lord Stark looked at us, then nodded. "Do as he says. Don't argue," he said to his children. Below the window I could hear Bran's wolf, still unnamed, howling and howling.

After the room emptied, I turned to Lord Stark. "I suspect that you are aware I am more capable than I admit," I said.

He nodded. "You didn't make much effort to hide it from us."

"No, I didn't. With your permission, I'll use my skills to try to heal Bran," I said.

"Why do you need our permission? Why can't Maester Luwin fix him?" Catelyn questioned.

"The fact of the matter is, my Lady, that Odysseus represents the best chance for Bran, but it's not a sure thing," Luwin explained.

"You have my permission," Lord Stark said as Catelyn broke down into sobs.

I walked over to Bran, putting my hands over his stomach and head. I used a small amount of Blue mana to scan his body. It was in bad shape. The brain was swollen and heavily concussed; there had already been some permanent damage in what I thought was short term memory. The bones in his legs and spine had partially splintered. I couldn't simply add regeneration and mend the injuries. Instead, I had to put him back together.

I wasn't sure whether I should start on the brain, or the legs. The brain might mean he'd wake up, and given the damage if he flailed about in pain it could kill him. On the other hand, if untreated, the brain could kill him first.

After thinking about it for a minute, I bit my lip. I needed to start with the brain, but I could hit him with a sleep spell. I'd never tested one before, since magic affecting the brain seemed risky, but needs must when the devil drives. I channeled up a mixture of Blue and White, forming into the shape of _sleep/slumber/peaceful dreams_ , then poked it into Bran's head. I watched it take hold in relief; it didn't fuck anything up, and it looked to be stable enough to last a day or until I took it down.

Then I took a White Mend Wounds, mixed it with a Life-force Imbuement, added a healthy dosage of Green Regeneration and a twist of temporal rewind from Blue, and stirred to get what I decided to call a Recover Damage. I pushed that into his brain and relaxed as I saw the swelling immediately recede, broken blood vessels fixing themselves as I watched. But that did mean I was temporarily tapped out on Blue, and at half-strength in Green and White.

I hoped it would be enough for the next bit. Using White, I restored the bones to their proper places, then used a dosage of localized regeneration to fix it up. As I finished the spine, I ran out of mana and was left sweating. I stood up, and went to get a drink from the water pitcher.

I chugged the water down, then gasped for air. The exhaustion was more in my mind and soul than body, but there was a degree of psychosomatic bleed-over. The Starks and Luwin were looking at me worriedly.

"So, good news. His brain's fine now, he's just sleeping. I've fixed up his spine, and in a few minutes when I've recharged a bit can get started on the legs," I explained.

"Oh, thank the Gods," Catelyn said.

"Thank you, Odysseus. I don't know how I'll ever repay this debt," Lord Stark added.

"There's no debt, Lord Stark. After you took me in, I'd do this for any of your family, but I'll admit to having a particular soft spot for Bran."

"Please," he said. "Anyone who saves my son's life, and further his ability to walk and ride, can call me Ned or Eddard."

"Very well, then, Ned," I said with a faint smile. "Wow, that feels weird."

He snorted, then chuckled. It wasn't really that funny, more a reaction to the release of stress from knowing his son would be alright.

I felt my mana bonds coming back online, so I stood up, stretched, and went back to sitting by Bran's side. I continued to re-align his bones, healing them as much as I could as I went along. Finally nearly an hour later I was done.

"Alright, all done," I said. "He should be fine, but may have lost some of his short term memories from just before he fell. Shall I wake him now?"

"Please," Lord Stark said so I removed the magic keeping him in a peaceful slumber, then poked his cheek while Catelyn looked on vaguely disapprovingly until he stirred.

"Oh Bran, you had us so worried!" Lady Catelyn exclaimed as she hurled herself to his side and enveloped him in a hug. Ned bent over, and rested a hand on Bran's shoulder.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked his son.

Bran seemed lost in thought for a moment, then answered. "I was… climbing the broken tower? Then I heard voices. I was just going closer to find out what they were saying, then I woke up here."

Damn. Well, it seemed likely this wasn't an accident. As the Starks caught him up, I went over to the corner where Brans clothes were piled. Maester Luwin had cut them off the boy to better treat him. Tangled in his harness was a length of rope. It had been cut on the end that should have led to the belaying equipment.

"Alright, two things. First off, for Bran. He needs to spend the next two weeks in bed, putting as little stress as possible on his body. His bones are currently held together with a wish and a prayer, and I don't know if I can heal them if they break again. After those two weeks, he can get up but for two more weeks only to do some physical recovery, which I or Maester Luwin will oversee, or to go to the chamber-pot." Bran didn't seem very happy about that. "I'm sure Maester Luwin can find some good story books, and that your mother would be happy to read them to you, Bran." Now he was a bit happier.

"Second," I continued. "Bran's rope was cut. His fall was no accident." Lord Stark was literally growling in rage. I think I'd seen more emotion from him in the past hour than the previous eight months. "With your permission, Lord Stark, I'll investigate the Tower. Togo may be able to catch a scent, and there are some techniques my home uses to identify criminals that might be effective."

Eddard's jaw worked for a bit. "Go. Tell Jory to assign four guards to the room, and four to help you, with the rest to go to full readiness. You can request anything I have that might help you."

I shook my head. "That should be enough, if Maester Luwin would be willing to lend me a bottle of talcum powder and a fine brush."

I could tell that Stark was curious, but he just nodded. Maester Luwin stuck his head out of the room, and sent his servant-assistant off to fetch the materials. He called Jory in, who received his orders with cool competency. A few minutes later, I had my talcum powder, my guards, and I was off to the Broken Tower.

After all, I had to figure out who was responsible for Bran's fall before I could wreak my bloody vengeance on them.

As I approached the Broken Tower, I saw a Stark man guarding the place where Bran had fallen.

"Guardsman," I said, not recognizing him. He straightened himself respectfully. "Did you see anyone enter or exit the tower after Bran fell from it?"

"Yes, sir. Ser Lannister and a half-dozen of their red-cloaks searched it to see if anyone was inside; they didn't find anything," he replied.

Damn. Well, hopefully they hadn't contaminated the crime scene in any significant way. It wasn't like I had high fidelity tools or any experience in forensics though, so hopefully the clues were obvious enough I could find them in the first place.

Four hours later, and all I knew was that someone had been having sex somewhere in the tower. My crude technique couldn't get anything better than a partial print, which I had no hope of matching without statistical analysis. I couldn't figure out a spell to scan for DNA, and when I tried in my rage to sympathetically curse whoever was responsible for the semen traces Togo found, it merely disintegrated my link. I was pretty sure the curse didn't work.

Scent wise, it was a wash – literally. The scent they wore was extremely expensive, and thus used by nearly half of all the higher court ladies as well as whichever servants could get away with filching it. I even tried developing psychometry or post-cognition, but couldn't get more than faint impressions of passion from the one or a few minutes of my searching the room for the other.

In short, I had didly squat and hundreds of potential suspects to whom keeping their affair secret might be worth killing over. Short of using Bran to set a trap, something I wasn't willing to do and his parents would likely reinstate flaying just for me for suggesting, I saw no solution.

I reported as much to Lord Stark, who wasn't happy but decided to spread the word that Bran was awake, likely to make a full recovery in time, but couldn't remember the minutes leading up to his fall. Meanwhile he was under heavy guard, and the loyal Stark servants were warned to beware attempts to poison him or other guests.

Eddard did reveal to me Lady Catelyn's sister, Lysa Arryn's theory that a Lannister was behind her husband, the previous Hand's death. I warned him that given the Southern court, it was entirely possible that the death of Lord Arryn and the attempted murder of Bran were unrelated, just as it was possible the incidents did have some conspiracy in common.

The next few weeks were tense. The king was incredibly upset that someone would try and kill his best friend's nine year old son. Frustrated at his inability to do anything constructive, he spent the time in something of a frustrated funk and snapped at those who caught his attention. Three weeks after Bran fell the main party left for the capital, and the servants breathed a little easier.

For my part in saving Bran's life, beating Clegane, and showing off my archery skills, Lord Stark felt justified in knighting me. I swore my oaths at dawn in front of the Heart tree, as was accepted practice for what few Northmen decided to become knights. I picked a black silhouette of a horse archer performing a Parthian shot on a light grey background for my heraldry.

Lord Stark had further wanted to make me a noble, but I had no interest in administering a fief. Instead he wrote a warrant for me, allowing me to act as his emissary when I felt it necessary. That was a huge amount of trust; as his emissary, I basically spoke with his voice and authority as the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. Considering he was about to be Hand… well, it was a _lot_ of authority.

I spent most of those weeks camped out with Bran, keeping him amused so he wouldn't go on a walkabout and ruin all my hard work. Also, between Togo and myself it would take a small army to get to Bran. I started to work on Summer, Bran's newly named direwolf, making it grow faster, stronger, tougher, smarter. Basically the same upgrades I'd worked on Togo, though forgoing the gigantism due to lack of time and need.

By the time Bran's month of recovery had passed, Summer was nearly three hundred pounds and could shred a handful of armored knights without issue. I made Bran promise to keep Summer nearby, follow his lead when it came to trusting people, and have the animal check all the food and drink before he ate it. Bran was just happy to have an excuse to get his mother to allow him to keep his pet in his room.

When Jon saw Summer's developing physique, he quirked an eyebrow.

"What?" I asked somewhat defensively.

"I didn't say anything," he said overly innocently. "And I won't, so long as Ghost gets the same treatment next."

I just laughed, then agreed.

I still needed to figure out some way to give our furry friends a ranged attack though, because that would be fucking _awesome_. The only thing better than a massive, horse-sized, wolf-like companion that could easily shred knights was that same companion with a breath attack. Sadly I couldn't get it to work in the time allotted, though I thought I might manage to give them a stunning bark or roar in the near future. Togo seemed excited at the possibility, and kept pushing me to the corner of Bran's room where his desk was; I'd appropriated it for my own work on spells while I was staying with him.


	6. On the Road

**_AN:_** _Was wicked sick this week, triple release as an apology._

 **Chapter 6: On the Road**

Ten days after the royal party left, I was finally confident in Bran's survival and safety.

Jon and I set out, Togo and Ghost in tow. On our breaks I worked on improving Ghost and Shadowfax, a grey gelding I was given by Hullen at Lord Stark's order so that Jon might have something to ride. I had named him after Gandalf's steed. Geeky, I know, but the coloring was right and by the time I was done with him Shadowfax would be every bit worthy of his name.

We had been on the road for some seven weeks, the royal party closer to two months when we finally met up with them again. Travelling with a full supply chain, servants, wheelhouse and with guests riding to pay court to the king at every stop the Royal party was averaging a fairly respectable fifteen to twenty miles a day. Jon and I could easily do double that, but took our time seeing the local sights, stopping for a couple days a week so that we could rest, hunt for more supplies, practice our combat, and so that I could bond with the land.

I picked up a _lot_ of lands on our journey. Two Greens, in the woods near the Barrowlands and the Neck. Two Whites, from Moat Cailin and the Kingsroad. A Black, also from Moat Cailin. But the biggest gains were in Blue; one from the White Knife River, two from the Bite which was a bay near to Greywater Watch, and two more while travelling along the Green Fork of the Trident. The extra power was useful to speed Ghost and Shadowfax' transformations; I was thinking of offering similar services to Jon himself when I finished with his mount and companion.

While working on Ghost I had noticed something interesting; a mystical bond between him and Jon. I found out from Jon that he often dreamed of being Ghost, and concluded that it was the beginning of a Warg bond. As interesting as the local magic was though I had no desire to risk myself with such a linking, and cautioned Jon not to throw himself into magical experimentation willy-nilly.

Finally, after all that time travelling, we were approaching the royal party. After talking to some merchants headed north, we found out that the king, accompanied by Lord Stark and the two Stark girls, was likely at the Crossroads Inn and would cross over to continue south towards King's Landing the next day.

Before we met them at the inn, however, I wanted to check the Ruby Ford. Hopefully the resonance there of revolution and battle and the death of a tyrant prince would mean that the site would be a source of Red mana, something I was finding to be rarer than I would like considering it was my primary fuel for blasting type spells. Beyond that, the Ford was a historical site, and worth visiting as a tourist. Given our relative closeness and the fact that travel took so much time, it would be a shame to miss it only to spend more time with the travelling circus that was the king's court while on the road.

As we approached, we heard screaming then a boy with blood on his face ran out from the brush followed by a richly outfitted horse.

"On, Aethon!" I cried as the horse lurched forward, covering the distance in a sprint. We arrived just in time to see Joffrey approaching Arya with his sword in hand. She had been forced back, pinned to a tree without the ability to run. Sansa was in the background, screaming like a useless twit. I reached for my bow, knowing I couldn't cover the distance quickly enough even with Aethon, fearful that I'd be too slow.

Joffrey's sword came up, winding back for a mighty blow.

My arrow was nocked as I drew.

Then Nymeria, Arya's direwolf, was there, her jaws tearing at his arm as she bowled the golden turd over and knocked his sword flying. I held up my hand to stop Jon from interfering as Arya called off her wolf and picked up Joffrey's sword. She looked at it, at him laying on the ground.

"Don't touch me!" Joffrey yelled, sobbing. "I'll, I'll tell my mother!"

Wow. What a _fucking_ brat. I remember when I was fourteen, and I was far tougher even coming from a soft, modern background.

"Stop it, Arya! Leave him alone!" Sansa yelled.

I could see the disgust in Arya's eyes, and couldn't tell if it was aimed at that pile of excrement called Joffrey, or at Sansa for defending him. Arya spun, tossing the sword with the full force of her body behind it. It spun, glistening through the air before it landed in the river. I felt like laughing at the symbolism, another tyrant of a prince meeting defeat at the Ruby Ford.

Arya stormed over to her horse, mounted up and left in a huff with her Nymeria following.

"Jon, go after her. See that she makes her way to Lord Stark immediately, and make sure she eats something," I instructed. According to Mom, pissed off kids just lacked sufficiently frequent snacks and naps; as silly as it was, her tactics worked and I thought it would be better if Arya's blood sugar was topped off before any continuing conflict. "Togo, go with them and see them safe."

Jon nodded and took off, Ghost following. Riding Shadowfax he'd have no issues catching her. Togo looked up at me.

"Yes, I'm sure I can deal with the brats on my own. I'm more worried for Arya," I said.

Togo snorted in agreement, then took off after Arya and Jon.

I went along at a walk as Sansa tried to comfort Joffrey. "Oh Joffrey," she wept. "Oh, look what they did to you, look what they did! My sweet prince, I'll be off right away to bring help."

What was that girl thinking. Obviously the prideful turd wouldn't want people to see him in that state. The little psycho, like many of his breed, had a strong desire for control and domination. I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up working his way through everyone that saw him in this state; Sansa was _certainly_ on the list from how he was looking at her.

He glared at her with poisonous, wicked intent.

"Go," he spit at her. "But don't touch me."

"That won't be necessary," I called out. They hadn't noticed my approach, too preoccupied with their own bullshit, and started.

"Ser Odysseus," Sansa greeted, stammering.

"Gods' sakes, girl. You can call me Odysseus, or just Odds like always," I said. She didn't seem to know what to say to that. "And you, Prince Joffrey. Would you rather an escort back to your parents? Or should I treat the injury myself?"

"I am quite well enough to get back to the King and Queen myself," he said, suddenly haughty and arrogant once more. "Simply give me your horse and I'll be on my way."

I looked down at Aethon, then up at Joffrey and just shook my head. "You can try approaching him, but Aethon's a willful and dangerous fellow. If he doesn't take to you and you try to ride him he's liable to take your head off. And that's the last damned thing I need today. I guess it's maybe seven or eight miles as the crow flies back to your parents; you could walk it in two-three hours. Or ride with Lady Sansa."

"The last thing I want to do is ride next to one of you northern Stark _savages_ ," he hissed. "Can't you see what that beast did to me!"

It really _wasn't_ that bad. Some scratches, a few shallow scraping bites. Nymeria was harsh, but not savage. My dogs back on earth had once gotten into it after the larger got sick of the smaller one bullying him. The fight lasted all of a few seconds, and smaller needed something like a hundred fucking stitches after. Joffrey was fine, and a damned sight better than he'd be with one of my arrows through his chest.

"Don't you want to be a warrior like your father someday? Believe me, if you're the sort to make any kind of success of yourself at fighting then you'll end up looking back at these scratches and laughing," I said.

"Sansa, ride with him. I'll take the other horse," the prick stated, changing the subject and ignoring that the "other" horse was Sansa's.

He was really an amazing piece of work.

"Of course, my Prince," Sansa simpered. Seriously, the girl was basically a walking, talking example as to what feminists hated. Hell, even _Aethon_ was rolling his eyes at her, and for all his intelligence he was a fucking _horse_.

But with Joffrey on Sansa's horse, and Sansa behind me, we set off. I set a slow pace through the forest, leaving plenty of time for Jon to get Arya and find Lord Stark before we arrived.

Fucking Joffrey. I never got to bind the Ford.


	7. Court at the Crossroads

**Chapter 7: Court at the Crossroads**

A few hours later found Robert holding court inside the common room of the Crossroads Inn. The room was split into three factions.

On the Lannister side was the fuming queen, her brat of a son, her swordsman brother and a gaggle of courtiers and supporters.

On the Stark side, Lord Stark, Arya, myself, Jon and off to the side a bit Sansa, with all of our massive pets in attendance. A number of lesser lords aligned with the new Hand, likely due to being shut out of court by the Lannistes in the past.

The third faction were basically there for the entertainment. The most prominent members were Robert's youngest brother Lord Paramount of the Stormlands Renly Baratheon, and Lord Commander Barristan.

Sitting in the middle of this clusterfuck and looking mighty unhappy about that fact was King Robert.

"Let's get this mess done with quickly," Robert stated.

"And what mess is that exactly?" Eddard asked icily.

"What mess? What mess, _Lord Stark?_ " the queen hissed. I'd never heard a title used a swear-word quite that well before. Bitch had skills. "How about the mess that girl of yours made of my son's arm! She and her beast, trying to cripple my Joffrey!"

"That's not true," Arya spoke up. Her voice was loud for such a tiny thing, carrying over the entire gathering. She was too young to understand that calling the queen a liar in front of the court, reduced as it was for travelling, wasn't likely to help in this situation. I barely avoided laughing. "That's not true," she repeated. "Nymeria only bit Joffrey because he was going to hit me with his sword!" There was a long moment of silence after that.

"So that's why Ser Rodrick waits until the kids are older to give them live steel," I said sotto voce. "They get too excited and try and poke little girls."

It sounded quiet, but was perfectly pitched to carry, and I saw at least half a dozen people struggle not to laugh. Robert himself was shaking his head and trying to maintain a kingly demeanor without much success. The queen shot me a poisonous glare, but I wasn't going to make it easy for her to present this as anything but youthful idiocy precipitated by the jackass prince.

"You hit me first!" Joffrey yelled. "With that stick!" I could see the moment that the queen realized she'd lost control of the situation with Joffrey going off script.

"You were cutting Mycah's face!" Arya retorted.

"He hit you with a stick!" Joffrey shouted, spittle flying from his red face. Honestly, this was hilarious.

"We were _training_ , you idiot!" You tell him, Arya.

Joffrey paused a moment to gape at her astounding logic. I could see the queen gathering breath but beat her to it.

"Are we sure it's Sansa that's marrying Joffrey, and not Arya? Because they already sound like an old married couple," I said in the gap of sound again. At least a third of the adults were coughing into their hands to hide their laughter, while Robert had face-palmed.

"And then you set that beast on me!" Joffrey argued, changing the subject when he was losing. This time it was Arya's turn to be taken aback.

"Poor show, Prince Joffrey. You can't just ignore her point like that," a lord in green-enamel with a Baratheon stag – Renly, perhaps - said, getting in on the fun. I could actually _see_ the queen's blood pressure rising.

"And now we go back to the beginning of the argument," I added. Arya needed the help; she was only ten.

"Ya! I already told you, Nymeria was just protecting me. It's your fault for trying to hit me with the sword!" Arya rallied.

"Shut up! It's your fault! It's all your fault! And you threw Lion's Tooth in the river!" Joffrey yelled.

"Enough!" Robert boomed out, silencing both of the children.

"Lion's Tooth," I heard Renly mutter to himself, cracking up. Everyone was looking at him as he laughed. " _Lion's Tooth_. That's just, too funny."

Robert looked at him. "Really, Renly? Do you need to excuse yourself?"

"And miss this fine entertainment? No, I'll try to control myself," he said, getting a hold on his laughter. "Pray, brother, continue."

"So. _Without interruptions_ I want to hear what happened. Remember that lying to me, your king, is a terrible crime before Gods and men. Arya, you go first," Robert instructed.

And so Arya relayed her story. How she and Mycah were "training" or play-fighting, when that great bully Joffrey rolled up and slashed the unarmed Mycah's face. Then Arya, wanting to save her friend and whack the bully, did just that, smashing her stick on the back of Joffrey's head. Then they fought, and the horse ran away, and Nymeria saved her, and she took that sword and threw it in the river, and Ser Rodrick says Joffrey shouldn't have sharp steel anyways so there. And maybe he'd think better of hurting her or her friends next time.

It was objectively a hilarious recounting, made _so much better_ by the ridiculously serious court being held inside an Inn's common room.

Then it was Joffrey's turn, and he told a story that his mother had obviously concocted for him. It cast him in a great light, and had no relation to the truth whatsoever that I could tell. After he finished, he looked at his mother for approval. I could tell that she was torn, between praising him for being a mama's boy, and face-palming since his account _directly contradicted_ some of the things he'd said in the earlier exchange with Arya. He was just too wound up and discombobulated to realize it at the time.

This, of course, put the king in a difficult situation. The prince was injured, which was bad. He was adamantly lying, which was worse since it was next to impossible for Robert to call him on it. Partially because his mother had obviously put him up to it, and partially because a dishonest untrustworthy prince was a legitimate issue for succession in a medieval society.

"And what am I supposed to do with this? She says one thing, he something else entirely," Robert sighed.

And then Ned went in for the kill.

"They weren't the only ones there," Lord Stark said. "Sansa, come forward."

Oh, mistake there Stark. Sansa's the useless sort. Give her half a chance and she'll just make things worse, totally unwilling to face facts and side with her family against that festering boil called Joffrey. It was obvious that Sansa was torn between the two sides, not seeing it as truth versus lies, but as Joffrey versus Arya.

So I decided to help her out, and stepped forwards. "Perhaps it's unfair to expect Lady Sansa to disprove her future betrothed's little story," I said. "She's of an age to be blinded by the lustre of love, after all, and the Lannisters _are_ very pretty." I had forgotten how satisfying it was to tear people apart with my words. Pity the Lannisters that had reminded me.

"But I can with absolute certainty that Nymeria saved the prince's life," I continued, stunning the room.

"How did it do that!" Cersei shrieked. "That beast nearly took off his arm!"

"Well, let me tell you a story. There I was riding over to the Ruby Ford, to see where the previous tyrant prince who thought he could abuse a Stark lady met his end," I said. She blanched, then reddened with anger. "Then what do I hear but yells and screaming of children. A panicked boy ran out of the bushes, a cut along his cheek, soon followed by an expensively caparisoned horse. I rushed forwards, and saw some fifty paces distant a certain blond-haired boy holding my lord's daughter at sword-point. I was too far away to block his blow, but had arrow to string and was about to make my shot when a wolf protected my charge, tackled the boy, and disarmed him.

"So I tell it true, Your Grace." My voice was as cool as ice as I pronounced the iron, bloody reality. "You should be laying down offerings to the gods Old and New for "that beast". For if it hadn't acted, you'd be burying your son."

Her face was white with rage. "How dare you. How _DARE_ YOU!" she hissed. I lost it a bit after that.

"How dare I? _I?_ How dare YOU!" I shouted her down as everyone stared. "Let us put aside for a moment the fact that you obviously coached him on that transparently false story to present to the king, an act that is itself a crime.

"You are risking setting the Crown and its greatest supporter at odds, and over what – jealousy for a dead woman, or how well your husband and my lord get along? A few scars, marks on the skin that most every boy gains during his play? Yours are acts that even a charitable man might consider treason."

Recovering from his shock, Jaime Lannister took a step forwards, drawing his sword. "I am not a generous man, and I _do_ call your insults to the queen and prince treason. Surrender of I'll cut you down where you stand."

I channeled my mana, cast my spells and prepared to move as Togo lifted his bulk off the ground with a rumbling growl.

"Cease!" Robert boomed, his voice no full of furious comman. "I can call treason within my own presence, Lannister! Sheathe that blade before I make you eat it. And you, Odysseus, will apologize for your words."

I bowed. "Of course, Your Grace. I apologize. I thought I had calmed down, but I was obviously still overwrought by seeing my lord's ten year old daughter threatened for playing with sticks."

"I said enough, damn you!"

The queen's eyes were wide as saucers, her face a rictus of hate. "Robert, I want him punished," she hissed. "I want them all punished."

"Seven hells," he swore. "And what then. Should I also punish you for conspiring to lie to me? And how should I punish the girl, a child, while I'm at it? Whip her through the streets? No harm was done beyond some hasty words, let us leave it at that."

"So he can simply insult me like that, in front of the whole court? What kind of a man are you!" she seethed.

"What kind of man am I? I am the king!" he barked, his fat finger pointed at her face. "And I warn you, if you cannot keep your tongue civil, then keep it still. Your rash and womanly actions have caused me enough grief today."

Her face twisted in hate, and then she got a gleam in her eye. "What of the direwolf," she called out. "What of that monster that savaged your son."

Damn. Well, hopefully Robert wasn't about to give Cersei a consolation wolf. And I clearly needed to increase the time spent trying to figure out a proper remote curse spell; I wouldn't be safe until I killed off that bitch queen and her psychotic shit of a son.

"I'd forgotten about that," Robert said, settling into his seat. "A direwolf _is_ a savage animal." He paused to consider things. "Very well. Have Ser Ilyn take care of it."

Arya looked like she was about to cry, while the queens eyes gleamed with wicked victory and sadistic joy.

"Robert, you cannot mean to do this," Lord Stark protested.

"Enough, I do not wish to hear anything else on the matter. It is closed," Robert said. "Get her a dog, she'll be happier for it."

I bent down to Arya's ear, and whispered in it.

Ned was starting to droop in defeat when the little spitfire spoke out, shocking the court.

"I demand a trial by combat! I refuse to lose my pet without due progress," her clear voice rang out. It's due _process_ Arya, but nicely repeated otherwise.

I bent down to whisper in her ear again.

"Ahem. I meant process. I refuse to lose my pet without due process," she clarified blushing.

"You can't ask for a trial by combat for a _wolf_ ," Cersei scoffed.

"Actually, Your Grace, I believe you'll find she _can_. The wolf is her property, and as killing it is removing her property from her, she has every right to trial by combat," I interjected.

"Then she should simply be paid a sum of equal equal to her losses," the bitch queen argued. "Given the rarity of direwolves, and taking into account its wild behavior, I think a single silver stag appropriate."

"On the contrary, Your Grace. Those of us capable of emotion judge our pets, our companions, by how much we love them. I suspect that Lady Arya values her love more than a million gold dragons," I retorted.

"Ten million!" Arya piped up.

I smiled. Good girl.

"A trial by combat for the wolf," Robert said incredulously. "Why not. The day's been ridiculous enough already. Very well. Cersei, I assume you'll be championed by your brother? Arya, by Odysseus?"

Ser Jaime nodded and stepped forwards, but I shook my head. "Given the circumstances, Your Grace, I thought it might be more fitting if Togo were to champion Arya. If that meets with your approval, little lady?" I asked.

It wasn't that I was _scared_ of Jaime; I knew I could hit him with three arrows at fifteen paces before he reached me. But this day, when the Kingslayer died, was going to be _famous_. It made for a much better and more damaging story if he fell to my dog, and the Lannisters needed taking down a few pegs.

"It does," she replied, trying and failing to channel Sansa's serious nature.

Robert just sighed. "Very well. Championed by a dog. Of _course_. We'll have it outside, then."

We trooped outside into the inn's courtyard. Other members of the travelling party were gathered about, waiting to hear the gossip from the evening's entertainment.

I bent down next to Togo, activating Haste, Regeneration, Oak-skin, Thought Acceleration and a Physical Buff on him.

"Alright, buddy. You know what to do. Nothing fancy. Just tear his fucking throat out," I told Togo.

He looked at me like _of course, you idiot_ , and huffed.

"In the sight of gods and men we are gathered to determine the innocence or guilt of this girl, Arya Stark. May the Mother grant her Mercy, may the Father give such Justice as is deserved, and may the Warrior guide the hand of our champion," Robert intoned, ritual words of a trial by combat flowing out of his mouth. "Begin!"

And like an arrow, Togo was off, charging at Lannister. He seemed taken aback by my dog's speed. Knowing that he couldn't face Togo's charge head on, he tried to sidestep while bringing his sword down on Togo's neck. But Togo reacted faster than that, springing forward diagonally with an extra burst of speed.

The sword, swung skillfully by Lannister's strong arm, proved ineffective against Togo's literally oak-tough flesh, and only penetrated an inch or so into Togo's flank. Togo bowled him over, and in a screaming moment of flashing claws and fangs had caught Jaime's throat and lower face in his massive jaws. With a crunch Togo tore it off, blood spraying in the evening sun.

He swallowed, and howled his victory.

"No! Jaime!" the queen screamed, hurling herself forward over her dead brother. "Jaime, Jaime! Jaime, don't die Jaime, please, please, don't leave me!" she cried.

Robert shook his head bitterly. "Well now, it's done. The wolf lives. I hope this was all worth it," he spoke, his tone dark and heavy.

The queen turned to him, lost in her rage. "You!" she screamed, then she just kept screaming, her hands held like claws as she scratched at Robert, trying to catch his eyes and face, to cause damage that would do nothing to assuage the hurt in her heart.

He caught her after a moment, held her in a bear hug. "Ser Barristan. The queen is distraught. Show her to her wheelhouse and keep her there until she is calm," he grunted. Then after the knight had taken her he said something else. "Gods be good. What a fucking mess. And knowing Tywin, it's just starting." He was mumbling to himself, but I heard every word.

That night I went into the yard, and gathered a jar of the blood-stained sand, sealing it with wax. With any luck, I'd figure out a sympathetic curse soon and wipe the Lannisters out root and branch. They were vipers, and I had no desire to leave them hiding in the grass and waiting to strike me.


	8. On the Road Again

_**AN:** This ends the triple release for the day._

 **Chapter 8: On the Road Again**

The rest of the ride to the capital was decidedly tense, the queen's men both wanting to pick a fight with me and knowing that they'd likely die for it. I had set Jon and Ghost to guarding Arya and Nymeria, and started giving Arya's Nymeria and Sansa's Lady the mana treatments to increase their growth and strength so they could better protect their mistresses.

Other than that, a _lot_ of people wanted to talk with me. The first was, somewhat understandably, Robert who summoned me to ride with him the next day. He was escorted by Ser Barristan and a score of mounted men at arms and knights in Baratheon colors. After ordering his men to patrol at a distance so we could talk, he stayed silent for several minutes, visibly thinking about what he wanted to say.

"You've put me in a damned hard position, Odysseus," he began. "Trial by combat or not, you've killed my wife's twin, Tywin Lannister's eldest son. They'll come for you for that."

"Thank you for the warning. I have faith that between myself and Togo we can see ourselves safe, Your Grace," I replied.

He snorted, shook his head. "Of course you do. And I suppose we'll see what happens when they eventually send the Faceless after you, or the Sorrowful Men."

Again, there was a silence.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he burst out.

I paused a moment to consider, to organize my thoughts. "Well, Your Grace, that's a complicated question. May I speak freely?"

"Do you know any other way of speaking?" he grumbled angrily.

"A good point. But I'm not sure where to start. In fact, can I tell you a story?"

"Why not," he sighed and rolled his eyes.

"This is a story from my homeland, about a scorpion and a fox. One day, a fox comes to a river and sees a scorpion waiting to cross it.

"Fox!" says the scorpion. "Please, I have to cross this river. Won't you help me?"

"No, you'll sting me," says the fox.

"I'd have to be crazy to sting you," argues the scorpion. "We'd both drown!"

The fox thinks about that for a moment, then agrees with that logic. Halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the fox.

As the poison courses through his veins, the fox looks up to the scorpion riding on his back. He only has the strength for a single word. "Why?" he gasps.

The scorpion looked sad for a moment, then answered him. "I couldn't help myself. It's in my nature.""

The king thought about it for a moment and nodded. "A good story. What is the point you wanted me to draw from it?"

"There were two, Your Grace. First, just as the scorpion cannot help his nature, I cannot help my own. I owe Ned, and I will serve him as best I can. That includes protecting his daughter, whether from a bully with a steel sword, or a woman's sharp, cutting words. No matter their station."

His face worked for a moment, then he just sighed. "I don't think any true man could do otherwise," he admitted. "You said there were two points though."

"The second, is about the queen. The woman is a scorpion. She just can't help but sting. She made this issue far greater than it should have been, fanned the flames of a campfire until it engulfed a whole forest. Consider the image. A boy nearly a man attacks a girl five years his junior. He has live steel, she a wooden stick. Then consider that the boy is the prince, the girl the daughter of Lord Stark. And this happens _not one mile_ from the Ruby Ford. Further, a royal calls for the _girl_ to be punished when the prince's wicked assault is rebuffed by her loyal pet."

Robert grimaced, his face flashing with rage as he remembered his own youth. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

"Perhaps not, Your Grace. But I can tell you, other Lords _did_ , and that word will spread. No one wants to have a madman on the throne. Not again," I warned.

"And do you think the prince truly as bad as that fucker, Rhaegar?" he asked with a dark tone in his voice.

"I don't know him well enough to judge truly," I replied honestly. "But I can tell you, he meant to murder Arya. If Nymeria hadn't been there, if I'd arrived later, you might have been explaining to Ned how his daughter died. As for Joffrey being as bad as Rhaegar… well, Rhaegar certainly did worse. Lyanna likely suffered greatly before her death. But Rhaegar didn't start at nearly so young an age either. It's presumptuous of me to ask, but has Joffrey been known to torture and kill animals? To trick servants into being punished, or give them cruel penalties?"

I saw the thoughts in Roberts eyes at that. It seemed that Joffrey truly _was_ psychotic, at least a little.

"Why?" Robert asked.

"It's a sign of a mental illness my people call _psychopathy,"_ I answered. "Those afflicted have reduced empathy, and don't see others as truly human, more objects for them to play with. They typically have a superficial charm and glibness, inflated sense of self-worth, lie and manipulate pathologically, have poor control over their behavior, issues with impulsiveness, blame others for their faults, and are in general blackguards. They often commit murder, and some enjoy the sorts of things that Aerys is told to. And they tend to escalate as they age."

Robert closed his eyes, wincing. "Joffrey killed a cat and cut open its belly to see the kittens inside once," he admitted. "And I had heard that servants considered him particularly harsh. Is there any treatment you could recommend?"

"The causes of psychopathy are debated, Your Grace," I explained. "The best medical minds in the subject agree that it is typically caused by a combination of hereditary traits and upbringing. There are ways to help reduce the symptoms, but those are only really effective on people who exhibit just a few negative traits and want to change themselves, fearful of sliding into the abyss. I would not expect them to help much, save to teach him how to better hide his traits."

"A hell of a thing to tell a man, that his son is a monster," Robert said. "What would you do in my position?"

"As a man, I would likely debate the issue, turning it over and over in my mind, trying to protect my son until he did something truly unforgivable," I replied. "As a king, I would have him sent to the Wall or the Citadel. I would have him gelded so that he could not have any progeny with ambitions. And I would send away the boy's mother so that the other children were not subject to her poisonous affections."

Robert looked at me, his eyebrows raised. "That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"

"Given the circumstances, the potential harm to the country, I would say that it was proper." I could see he didn't like the idea much, but it was planted, and Robert spent much of his time drunk. With a bit of luck, sometime he was deep in his cups Joffrey or Cersei would infuriate him and lead him to remember this conversation.

"But if you wanted a stop-gap," I continued, "I would send the boy to someone tough but fair, who I could trust to either reshape the prince's personality, or break him. And I would give documents to my most loyal supporters, including the man responsible for the prince, stating that unless he had that man's approval he was disinherited and to be sent to the Wall on either his coming of age or the king's death. Your brother, Lord Stannis, sounds like a likely candidate."

The king was deep in thought. "You certainly spoke your mind."

"I hope I didn't offend, Your Grace."

He just looked at me. "No, you didn't. You felt certain things needed to be said, and said them, and didn't pay one thought to offence."

He was right. I was never the most socially adroit of individuals, and tended to a certain blunt, analytical, utilitarian pragmatism that many found difficult to stomach.

"That too, Your Grace," I replied.

He shook his head. "I can understand why Ned likes you," he said. "Just the same way of speaking your mind, the two of you."

We rode back to the camp in silence. As we came close, he turned to me again.

"This wasn't how I thought our talk would go. I didn't like what you said, but I'll think on it. Now, off with you. I need a bloody drink. And a woman who isn't my wife."

The king crawled into a bottle, fell to debauchery, and didn't stop for the rest of the journey.

The king wasn't the last to speak to me. Powerful Lords sought me out, whether to find out more about where I stood, or to draw me into their factions, or the first steps of forming a faction around the new Hand.

For all that I had added to his difficulties, and fanned the flames of the Stark-Lannister interactions, I had massively strengthened Lord Stark's position. The Hound, one of the Lannister's most feared attack dogs, had lost his eye to my blow and the brain damage left him with further crippled with poor muscle control on one side of his body. He was barely able to walk, let alone fight. And now Jaime Lannister was dead, the "Yellow Prince" as he was being called shamed in front of the whole court.

It seemed as if the momentum was against the queen's faction, that the Starks were coming to court and smashing anyone who stood in their way. Politics are largely about perception. Win, and seem strong, and _keep_ winning and seeming strong, and people will fall in line.

Renly had approached both Lord Stark and myself to offer his support and gain our aid for his positions. He really formed the nucleus of the counter-Lannister faction at court. He was a young man, twenty one just like me, and to my modern eye obviously a homosexual. Hell, he even wore gold and green, the colors of his "special friend" Ser Loras Tyrell. Loras, meanwhile, was known as the Knight of Flowers. I mean, come on guys. Are you even trying to be subtle? But I never heard any rumors about them, and never started any either.

I had found three minstrels willing to compose songs about the fight between Togo and the Kingslayer, and the preceding fight between Arya and Joffrey. They were all part of Renly's faction, which made sense as the king's brother was aligned with us against the queen.

My favorite song was _The_ _Toothless Lion_ , a simple but catchy and comedic song. It had some great lines about the loss of Lion's Tooth, the "most heroic blade ever made, sized for a boy's hands" and Togo, "the great Kingslayer-slayer." I cracked up every time I heard that. It was already spreading through the villages we passed, brought back to keeps as lords and ladies joined and left the procession.

That kind of propaganda was easily worth the handful of gold dragons I paid for it.

Lord Stark didn't really approve, but even he could see that the feud with the Lannisters was irreconcilable.

For a week I spent every moment I could that we were stopped working on my curse. I just couldn't get it to work. The sympathetic bond wouldn't take. I knew I was missing something, some basic trick, and that if I could just see a working example I could manage it too, but I _couldn't_.

The best I managed was a Connected Mark spell, which allowed me to create a sympathetic bond on two very similar materials but had to be cast on both materials at the same time. In other words, for it to work I'd have to be touching the queen or prince, and the bloody sand, and cast a spell. No way were they letting me that close, and no way was that going to work.

After that, I threw my hands up in disgust and gave up. I spent the rest of the time figuring out how to make the Oak-skin spell into a permanent, deeper Oak-flesh. After I figured that out, I applied it to all of the pets and myself. With my experience turning a buff into an enchantment, I managed to figure out how to do the same with the Combat Precognition; I basically became, much to my glee, a budget jedi knight at that point.

In the remaining time I got to work on a White enchantment, a conceptual imposition of order and being protected. It wasn't strong, but it helped reduce and spread impacts, and every little bit helped. With time to reinforce it I would become tougher and tougher to harm. In the future I was hoping to turn it into a more general Superman style inviolate invulnerability, though I could tell that the enchantment fell short of that mark and would need to be substantially improved in general, qualitative ways before I could use it in that fashion.

Other than that I sparred daily with Jon and the Winterfell guardsmen, improving my skills with sword, shield and spear. I needed to be ready to see off the attacks that could be coming. I trained them in how to fight unarmed as well; as bodyguards they'd often have their weapons sheathed when they came under attack. I focused on how to fight against armed enemies, my own skills in such growing as I taught and practiced.

Socially, things were really weird. People didn't react the way I expected to Jaime's death. He was an incredibly important person, but he died in a trial by combat and most people basically just shrugged and got on with it. The antipathy from the queen's faction was equal parts a reflection of _her_ rage and the growing Stark-Lannister conflict in general, with only a small bit due to Jaime's death and even that from the more hot-tempered and younger persons.

I guessed that when life was cheap, and easily taken by disease or lost in war or tourneys that death became less impactful too. So long as it happened in a way that everyone had basically decided was legally and socially acceptable.

And then we were at the capital.


	9. Arrival

**AN:** Mass release, chapter 9-14 are being posted.

 **Chapter 9: Arrival**

As our now much divided procession arrived back in King's Landing, my senses were assaulted. Medieval life smells; that was an inescapable truth. Animals shit in roads. Sewers were often open to the air. Washing and hygiene was considered strange. But holy _shit_ did that city stink. The largest city in Westeros with somewhere between four and five hundred thousand inhabitants, the concentrated smell of humans living so close to each other, the piss and shit and rot and fish… it was fucking awful.

Togo looked up at me, whining, pleading for me to fix it with a spell. I couldn't just block the scent, that would remove one of his most important senses. After a few moments, I figured out how to use a bit of Blue, White and Green to normalize the scent signal against the background. Patting Togo, I applied it to him, then gave it to Aethon too. I'd have to figure out how to make it into a permanent feature later; Ghost, Nymeria and Lady were all looking pretty miserable.

The crowds watching from the sides of the street shied away from our massive pets, the direwolves and Togo not pleased with the sound and chaos, growling and snapping at anyone who approached too close. As it sun sank and evening set in, we arrived at the huge bronze doors of the Red Keep. It had been a damned long journey, and I was glad it was over. Smaller than Winterfell, the Keep was still impressively tall and imposing.

We had just arrived when a well dressed servant came up to Lord Stark; apparently the Grand Maester had called a sudden meeting of the small council. As the Hand, Stark was requested to attend as soon as convenient.

"It would be convenient in the morning," Ned growled, exhausted.

"Of course, my lord," the servant replied, bowing. "I will convey your regrets."

"Damn it. No. I will see them," Lord Stark reconsidered. "I just need to change into something more suitable first."

"Yes, my lord. You have Lord Arryn's former rooms in the Tower of the Hand, if that's acceptable. I will have your things brought there."

"Thank you," Ned replied, taking off his riding gloves. "It seems I'm needed urgently by the council," he called out to Poole, his steward. "See my daughters find their rooms, and have Jory keep them there. Under no circumstances is Arya to go wandering about and getting up to mischief." Poole bowed in response.

"Jon, why don't you go with them, and see that your sisters don't face any trouble," I said. My packs held my two spare sets of rough and two sets of finer clothing.

Lord Stark wasn't so lucky. "My wagons are still making their way through the city," he admitted to the royal servant. "I will need appropriate clothing."

"Of course, my lord," the servant replied. I grabbed one of the servants, found my room, got changed, and was waiting for Ned at the bottom of the stairs with Togo. I decided to leave my bow behind, and immediately decided that I needed to prioritize figuring out some sort of Inventory spell. That would be _awesome_.

"Did you decide to be my escort then?" Ned asked me when he came down looking dog-tired. I patted him on the back, giving a burst of magically rejuvenating energy and he stood up straighter.

"Given the circumstances, my lord, I thought it wise for Togo and I to keep you company," I answered.

"What a mess," he said.

We got to the council chambers, and I took up a post by the wall. The people present seemed somewhat stunned by Togo, who was best described as _holy fuck don't eat me_ sized. As the meeting began, I got to put names to faces for the councilors. Renly, the Master of Laws, I knew already. The same for the absent Ser Barristan.

Varys, a fat, bald eunuch dressed in silks was the Master of Whisperers; I trusted him about as far as Arya could throw him, and his high voice was creepy as fuck.

Pycelle, the Grand Maester was an old man with a bald, spotted head. He had a long robe. Unlike Luwin's choker, Pycelle's chain of office was made of heavy links of chain speckled with jewels; it went down to his breast. His robe was red velvet with gold fastenings, denoting his support for the Lannisters.

Lord Peyr Baelish, a slight, middle aged man was the Master of Coin. He was a notorious whoremonger known as Littlefinger. Supposedly he had been friends once with Lady Catelyn, but had basically been kicked out after he fell in love with her and foolishly challenged Brandon Stark for her hand. Considering he had chosen a mockingbird for his sigil, a bird renowned for laying eggs in others nests, I didn't trust him either.

He was, in fact, my prime suspect in Lord Arryn's death outside of the Lannisters that Lysa Arryn had pointed the finger at. Between calling himself the mockingbird, his rumored relations with Lysa, and the fact that the Arryn's seat was called the Eyrie, it was just too much coincidence _not_ to investigate. But I would have to be careful; he had a reputation for being clever, and anyone who could build himself a financial empire backed by vice would be someone dangerous.

Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Master of ships was likewise not present, and after the councilors assured Lord Stark that it was common for the king to skip the sessions they began. Robert, it appeared, was most noted for his absence in ruling.

The orders they received had obviously been written by Robert while he was drunk. He ordered a Tourney, with prizes of forty thousand dragons to the champion of the joust, twenty thousand to the runner up, twenty thousand to the champion of the melee, and ten thousand to the winner of the archery.

Those prizes were _nuts_. A dragon was worth two hundred and ten silver stags, each of which was at the time worth fifty six copper pennies so a dragon was worth eleven thousand seven hundred and sixty pennies. The currency value was based partially on the value of the metal, so it varied, hence those obnoxious numbers.

A copper penny, for perspective, had about the same purchasing power as eighty US cents in twenty-seventeen. You could get a loaf of hearty bread for three pennies. A knight's horse was in the low single digit dragons. A lord's ransom might be a hundred dragons. The prizes that Robert was offering was the equivalent to offering three hundred and seventy five million dollars to the jousting victor alone, with nearly a billion dollars of prizes all told.

I did a quick estimate as to how much the tournament could expect to earn the crown. Assuming an average of one hundred thousand people showed up for a month, and spent an average of one-hundred-fifty pennies a day on food, lodging, entertainment and services, that would bring about thirty-eight thousand dragons worth of coin into King's Landing. The crown might be able to get a quarter of that in special taxes and fees, or nine and a half thousand dragons back.

I was drawn out of my thoughts of economics by what Baelish said next.

"I shall have to borrow the money. Normally I would go to the Lannisters; we owe the Lannisters some three million dragons already, after all, what matter another hundred thousand? But I doubt Lord Tywin would be so accommodating, given the recent circumstances."

I could see Ned was just as stunned as I. "Are you claiming the Crown is _three million_ gold in debt!?" Ned blurted out.

"The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are our biggest creditor, but the Iron Bank of Braavos, Lord Tyrell, and a number of Tyroshi cartels have lent significant sums as well. Recently I've had to turn to the Faith," Baelish explained.

That was _really bad_. Westeros had a population of something like forty to sixty million; split the difference at fifty million. The typical farming family of five or six likely made something like a half-dragon to a dragon over the poverty line. Call it a dragon to be generous. Between the local lord taking his cut for protection, stored food for the crazy-long Winter years, the over-lord taking _his_ cut for more protection, and the general graft and corruption, I'd be surprised if the Crown saw a tenth of a dragon from that family. At an average family size of five between the fifty million citizens, and that works out to a yearly income of about a million dragons.

Robert probably saw about as many dragons again from his own, personally held lands as was normal under feudalism, for a grand total Crown income of two million dragons. Given the levels of interest common in medieval societies which could range from ten to twenty percent, and that the Crown actually had necessary expenditures, the Seven Kingdoms were in danger of just the _interest_ on the debt eating up every spare copper. It also meant that Robert had managed to overspend by something like a quarter of his income every year he was in power.

Ned was flabbergasted. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury overflowing with gold. How could you let this happen?"

Baelish gave a little Gallic shrug. "The Master of Coin finds the money. The Hand and the King spend it."

"Are you serious!" I burst out at his attitude as the Kingdoms slid towards insolvency. Everyone turned to look at me, and I flushed. "My apologies, my lords."

"No, Ser Odysseus, I'm interested in what you were thinking to burst out like that," Ned said, amused and likely hoping I had some clever insight to the situation.

"Thank you, my lord Hand," I said. "Lord Baelish, may I ask how many dragons the Crown receives in income each year? On average?"

Baelish looked at me as if I was something he scraped off a shoe. "Well, that is difficult to say exactly, Ser Odysseus. The financial system is quite complicated and –"

"So would I be wildly incorrect in assuming that it's on the order of two million dragons a year?" I interrupted.

Now I had everyone's interest. "Not wildly so, no," Baelish replied cautiously. "It's closer to three million during Summer, one million during Winter."

"And of that, the Crown has how much to spare after necessary expenses? A half million dragons? Less?"

"A little less, yes. About four hundred thousand dragons," Baelish answered. He could sense the trap closing now, but my guesses were close enough after reading and talking to Luwin and going over the North's tax situation that he couldn't escape it.

"And the interest on the debt. What is it on average. One part in ten? Three in twenty?" I questioned.

"On average, closer to one part in eight," he allowed. Twelve and a half percent of 6 million was…

"So you mean to tell me that the Crown _already_ owes nearly seven hundred and fifty thousand dragons a year, just as interest on the debt? Is that counted in those necessary expenditures?" I asked. Everyone watching had dawning looks of horror.

"It does," Baelish admitted. "And no, those expenses are not counted in the necessary expenditures. Typically Lord Lannister forgives the interest in return for certain political considerations, so it is difficult to predict."

"Regardless," I stated coldly. "Give that the Crown is currently facing the prospect of borrowing ever increasing sums just to meet the demands of the debt it already possesses, and considering that you, my lord, are the _Master of Coin_ , did you not think to bring this to the King's attention? Are you a traitor, corrupt or merely incompetent!?" I shouted.

"How dare you! Have a mind to whom you speak, Ser!" Baelish shouted, rising out of his seat then sitting down very quickly with a white face when Togo growled at him.

"I too am interested in hearing the answer to that question, Littlefinger," Lord Stark ground out. Few things infuriated him more than this sort of obviously shady failure of a man's duty. Given that this duty was to his friend and king, it was even worse.

"If you think it's so easy, then let's hear your solution, _Ser Odysseus_ ," Baelish hissed.

"Once again changing the subject, my lord? That _is_ suspicious," I drawled.

"Damn you, Odysseus. And damn you too, Stark. I had thought to help you for the affection I bear your wife, but then you spit on my honor like this. I am neither a traitor, nor corrupt, nor incompetent, merely faced with an impossible task! You can try and fix this situation, get Robert to moderate his spending, and see how it goes. And then you can apologize to me, or you can find a new Master of Coin. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better places to be with more pleasant company," he snarled, then stood and stalked towards the door.

"Should I…" I offered, prepared to take the man into custody on the spot.

"No, let him go," Lord Stark ordered as Baelish stormed out.

"I had heard you had a way with people, Ser Odysseus," Varys twittered and clapped his hands. "Bravo, bravo."

"Well, now that you've succesfully chased our Master of Coin away, _do_ you have any solutions, Ser Odysseus?" Pycelle asked sarcastically.

"The tournament, yes," I announced. "The state of the Crown's finances may be a more complicated matter, though I'm willing to give it a shot."

"And for those who don't know, Ser Odysseus is _quite_ the shot. In fact, I think today may be the first time I've seen him without his bow to hand," Renly added. "You know, if you'd just held your tongue and let things be I suspect that you could have won those ten thousand dragons."

"Thank you, my lord," I replied with a short bow. He had nicely implied that my actions were motivated by duty, not self-interest.

"You're quite welcome," Renly said with a grin.

"What is this plan of yours to fix the tournament, Ser?" Varys questioned.

"Well, the first part is to reduce the prize money to at most a tenth of what Robert initially wanted, a twentieth or less if he'll go for it. I suspect he wants to have a grand tournament though, one that draws the most famous and skilled, and that takes grand prizes. Instead of money though he could offer land; I heard that the Whispers and Summerhall are without lords, and I am sure there are half a dozen other such keeps besides. The reduced prize money would suffice to hire workers to repair the lordly seats and attract people to work the land. That would reduce expenditure on the tournament to about ten thousand dragons.

"Then, we need but increase the _income_ from the tournament. I would guess that given, say, sixty days for the word of the tourney to spread and attract competitors, and with a bit of management, we could attract as many as a hundred thousand visitors to the city. They'll likely spend something around a half-silver a day on average, and if we're clever about having a number of smaller melees, duels, wrestling bouts, races, competitions with staves and the like while dragging out the actual jousting and main events, we could likely drag things out for a month with a week in the middle for a grand fair.

"Special taxes of a fifth of the income from inns, brothels, and specially available booths for merchants and tradesmen near the campgrounds, fairgrounds and tourney grounds would likely allow us to actually receive a quarter to a third of the true profit. Add in a small fee to use designated campgrounds, another to enter the tourney, a tax on the ransom paid by the tourney losers to regain their arms, armor and horse, a tax on the gambling… The Crown may actually come out ahead, and should certainly recoup the majority of its expenses."

Everyone was looking at me in awe. It wasn't very complicated; I knew that event organizers did all of those things already in the modern era, but Westeros was less saturated with commercialization.

"By the Gods," Renly laughed. "Perhaps he _should_ be our Master of Coin!"

"I'm afraid I'm too unfamiliar with the way things are done here, my lord," I replied. That and I wanted to work on magic and fighting, not become an economics advisor. "Though I'll give what advice I can."

Varys leaned forwards. "And what advice would that be?"

"Without having looked at the situation, it's hard to say," I replied. "Though the first thing I'd focus on was trimming the fat, the unnecessary expenditures, and reducing the debt burden. I'd try and refinance the loans, requesting lower interest levels. I'd also consider issuing public treasury bills and bonds."

"And what are those?" Ned asked.

"They're a type of government debt. The government might sell a bill, a document basically, that is worth a hundred silver starting a year from now, but it is sold for only ninety nine silver. It's common for them to be auctioned publicly, so the interest rate is naturally competitive and as low as people are willing to accept," I explained. "Bonds, on the other hand, pay an interest but a low one."

"So, much the same as any other debt," Varys asked frowning. "How would that help?"

"Well, not quite. Let's say I want to borrow money from the Iron Bank. I get on a ship, sail to Braavos, and meet with a representative. They evaluate the risk I present, the amount that they think they can get out of me, and maximize their profit by charging an interest rate which is affected by both the perceived risk, my own need for the money, and other interest rates available elsewhere. Correct?"

"Yes, that is the way these things work," Varys said dryly.

"Right. Bills and bonds reverse that order," I replied. "Instead of my going to the Bank to borrow, the Crown invites representatives from all the banks to come and bid, and invites people from the noble houses and commons to do so as well. That keeps the interest rate as low as possible; with sufficient competition, it will be the smallest difference in value that _anyone_ in that crowd can make a profit at. If we set the initial bid price so that the resulting interest is smaller than what we currently pay, and immediately use that money to pay our debt, we cannot lose.

"Similarly for the bond, instead of saying, "we need this money, we want the best interest you are willing to give," we say "we are selling up to so many millions of dragons of debt at this interest rate, and you may take it or leave it." If we begin by selling debt at a low interest and gradually raise it, with some maximum interest still lower than what we currently pay, again, we cannot lose money doing so."

"What's to stop people from doing this in general?" Renly asked bemused.

"Well, nothing. In my home, it was common for merchant companies to use such techniques to raise funds. But people tend to believe in a government, a country, much more than a company, so governments tend to get the best rates."

"And how do you prevent someone from forging one of these documents?" Pycelle asked.

"A combination of methods," I answered. "You can embed specific complex designs into the paper, watermarks, seals, fancy inks and signatures to start off. Then you can have each document be named and numbered. When the document holder comes to redeem it, it can be checked against a master list of names, numbers and associated values. Depending on if the bond-holder wants it to be transferrable or not, you can even require that their finger-prints match."

"I can see how this would be useful," Lord Stark said. "We already have some documents allowing the bearer to draw on monies without having to transport them, but they are rare and unique to each person that issues it. Something like this, backed by the Crown, could aid merchants even if there's no interest at all."

"Right," I agreed. "That's not unusual either, and would be a commodity or representative money. Basically, saying that if you took the note to the treasury they would exchange it for some defined amount of gold or silver or whatever. We actually used fiat money, which is basically state-issued money with no real value or conversion."

"Wait, do you mean to tell me that people valued, what, pieces of parchment as if they were real gold?" Renly asked incredulously.

I laughed. "I had a hard time getting my head around it too. But if you think about what gold _really_ represents, it isn't that odd. After all, gold is pretty, but so are many things. Beyond that, it's soft, heavy to carry, and rare. The reason gold is truly valuable is most of all that last part, its rarity. Combined with the fact it doesn't tarnish, doesn't rust away like iron, its rarity means that it's a perfect item to denote value. But, if a set amount of a currency was circulated, and it was difficult to damage or lose as well, with a small amount added each year to replace that which was lost or destroyed, wouldn't that serve the same purpose? That's the logic, at least."

"Still, I think I will keep to things with true value," Renly replied.

"There can be problems with that though," I warned. "About, oh, five hundred years ago or so there was a country, Spain, which was near my homeland. They, like everyone of that time, used the gold standard for their currency. Then, they found an unclaimed wilderness full of gold, nuggets the size of your fist in riverbeds for your taking. They brought it back home, and for a time Spain was rich! But then, the prices for things began to rise. With so much more gold available, it became worth so much less. And those sorts of economic shocks can be incredibly damaging. In Spain's case, they went from the strongest kingdom in the region to one of the weakest over the course of a couple generations. And that is but one case of many I can think of."

"How very interesting," the Spider said in his high pitched voice. I restrained a shudder, it just creeped me out _so much_.

"Well. It is late, and I am weary from the road. I will speak to the king and relay Ser Odysseus' plan in the morning, and we can reconvene in the afternoon to discuss the tourney. Is that agreeable?"

And with a chorus of assent, the first meeting of the small council under Ned's leadership came to an end.

 _AN: Every time I wrote dragons for the coins I had to stop myself from using galleons. Clearly I have been reading too much HP fanfiction._


	10. Scorpions

**Chapter 10: Scorpions.**

Togo and I followed Ned to his tower and rooms.

"Well, that was a more interesting meeting than I had envisioned, Odysseus. What do you truly believe about Littlefinger?" Ned asked after a minute or two.

We were crossing the outer yard on our way to the Tower of the Hand. "Perhaps, my lord, that is a discussion better held away from prying ears," I replied, glancing about at all the nearby knights, guardsmen and servants who were ill concealing their interest.

He nodded, and we finished getting to the tower in silence. The guards at the door straightened to attention and greeted us as we passed. We trooped upstairs, passing my room and standing outside Ned's.

He chuckled. "You have seen me safe to my room, Odysseus," he said. "I hardly need you to tuck me into bed."

I shook my head seriously. "Actually, I wanted to do a sweep of your rooms first. Considering that your servants are from Winterfell, and unlikely to be suborned, this is actually the moment of greatest vulnerability," I warned.

He frowned. "How? I hardly think my men would have missed an assassin hiding under the bed."

I was deadly serious though. "Poisoned needles placed in the sheets, or sticking up from the floor. A poison that can absorb through the skin soaked into the cloth. Candles made from a wax impregnated with a powder which, when burned, is poisonous. I could go on, my lord."

His eyes widened. "You have a deeper understanding of such dark deeds than I expected. Just what was your background that that was necessary?"

I grinned. "Such plots were vanishingly uncommon, my lord. I simply used to read, a lot. A few thousand books over my lifetime, I estimate. Many that were fiction and some that were fact included such plots."

He shook his head. "I doubt anyone will have done so, but if it makes you more comfortable, check away."

Togo and I looked through everything in the room. He smelled about to ensure there wasn't anything strange, licking candles and such, while I ran my hand over the sheets, checked the mattress and chairs, and flowed a bit of blue mana through the walls to make sure there weren't any surprises.

"As best as I can tell, it's clear," I reported.

"Come then. I'll have the servants bring us up some food, and you can tell me about what you think of Littlefinger."

As we ate, I told him how I suspected the man of more than the standard corruption and a degree of incompetence to boot.

"So what would you recommend?" Ned asked.

"Audit his books using the accounting technique I showed," I answered. "If he was clever, and hid his theft in the accounts, it should find them. But it will take a few weeks. I just hope he's arrogant enough not to destroy them overnight. As for Baelish himself, he should be kept under guard inside the castle, and insulated from speaking directly to anyone not loyal to you, my lord."

"I will ask Robert, but I do not know that he will agree."

"Very well. I'll need to find a dozen assistants who know their numbers. Merchant's children, or those studying their numbers under septons, perhaps."

"Begin to do so in the morning," he ordered.

"Yes, my lord," I replied.

"If Baelish _does_ prove to be dishonest, would you replace him?" he asked.

I was shocked. I hadn't really considered it. After thinking for a moment, I decided against it. While it might seem like my progress to return home was slow, and it was, dimensional techniques and magic in general were both things to be approached with care. I needed to train in fighting and surviving; the middle ages were hardly safe, and Westeros had had two major wars in less than twenty years. Beyond that, I didn't want to become monomaniacal, my mental health suffering under the drive to be back home _immediately_. But serving as the Master of Coin didn't help my objectives, and was more than my own honor and ethics demanded. I was willing to help, to advise, but not to take on the position permanently.

I shook my head. "I'd prefer not to, my lord. Perhaps Lord Manderly, or one of his sons?" The Manderlys controlled White Harbor, one of the greatest ports in Westeros and the largest city in the North. They were adept traders, and most importantly, loyal to Ned.

Ned considered it for a moment, then nodded. "I can see the advantages. Well, it is late. I will see you at breakfast."

"I hope you have a pleasant rest. If you don't mind, do you think Togo could stay in your entryway?"

Ned stretched, yawned. "Ever the cautious one. If it will make you feel more secure with the situation, then fine. Goodnight, Odysseus."

The next day was busy. Jon and I had to visit half a dozen septons, mostly from the mercantile areas, and a few of the bannermen loyal to the Tullys and Starks that had holdings in the city. Togo was left to guard Lord Stark, which was a shame as the crowds were much more willing to crowd a mounted knight than a pony-sized husky look-a-like. Still, by the afternoon I had acquired the service of fourteen young men and boys who could write and add well enough.

While Aethon and I were gone, Ned convinced Robert to go along with my plan for the tournament. The king also agreed to "keep Baelish close" until I could finish the audit. The moments of serious work must have driven the king over the cliff though; that night at the welcoming feast he got even drunker than usual and was groping one of the serving maids in full sight of the hall.

Cersei, suffering from the loss of her brother and living under only the faintest veneer of calm, had finally had enough and started screaming at Robert in full view of the entire court. They _really_ got into it. By the end of the night, Cersei was banished back to Casterly Rock, the seat of House Lannister.

Joffrey, who had drunk more than he should, unwisely took her side when complaining about his uncle's death and the lack of response from the king. Robert decided that he should be someone else's problem for a change, and announced that Joffrey would be sent on the next ship to Dragonstone to foster with Stannis.

Dragonstone was reportedly a hard, bleak fortress, and its lord was rumored to be one of the dourest, most dutiful and lawful men in the realm. It seemed that my advice had sat in the king's mind until he was angered enough to use it. Stannis would either fix or break Joffrey, and either way the little shit would be out of my hair for a while.

Sat far down in a hall filled with powerful lords and landed knights, I smiled. Things were going my way.

The sun two days later dawned, and the queen and her son were sent away. The majority of Lannister guardsmen went with them. It wasn't enough to fix the city and court, but at least the most pestilent of the boils had been lanced.

Not that I had much time to appreciate it. I was busy getting my new assistants prepared. I put Jon as their general manager, and trained them all on double-entry bookkeeping.

Then I had the disorganized and dusty boxes of loose parchment, books and scrolls which recorded the previous years' tax records and financial statements brought in, and I turned them loose. It was more work, and more disorganized, than I had expected; in my head I increased the likelihood of Baelish using the position solely for his own benefit.

No one actually uses such a disorganized system if they don't have to; it just adds more work. Baelish wasn't stupid. So if he was using a system where things could be easily lost, it was likely because there were things he wanted to hide.

Then a few days after the queen and prince left, the king fell ill. At first it was just an upset stomach, a bit of diarrhea and vomiting. Then the next day it got worse. He was throwing up, had stomach pains, and was quickly losing his health. I visited him with Lord Stark; I was _highly_ suspicious of the circumstances, but it could have been Cholera or something like it.

Grand Maester Pycelle and a gaggle of servants were present along with Ser Barristan. The room was hot and smoky with incense and stank of shit and puke.

"Ah, Ned, look at me now," Robert rasped. "Laid so low by fucking _illness_ ," he spat bitterly.

Stark was concerned but tried to put a good face on it. "I'm sure you'll be up drinking and hunting in no time, Your Grace."

"Ha!" the king barked. "I doubt it. Pycelle tells me I may die."

"If I may ask, what are the symptoms Your Grace?" I interjected.

Pycelle shot me a dirty look and answered for him. "His Grace has a chill on the stomach, likely from too much iced wine," he said.

I looked at Pycelle. "And have your treatments been effective?" I asked. "Is the king able to keep broth down?"

He sneered at me. "So your expertise extends to medicine also, does it?"

My gaze hardened. "I know a bit, and might be able to relieve the king of some of his suffering," I offered. Really, I didn't. But I did know how to give a decent massage, and those always make people feel better. Further, it would give me enough time and contact to use my magic to figure out what was going on.

"If you think I'm going to let some unknown savage treat the king," Pycelle began to bluster.

Robert interrupted him. "Let him try. Gods know I couldn't feel any worse."

I nodded, and stepped forwards. "Very well, Your Grace," I said, drawing back the blankets. "I will be using a medical pressure-point massage. I am sure you have experienced in training that certain points on the body can cause immense pain when poked even lightly?"

He nodded weakly. "Yes."

"Much in the same way, other points can aid in healing when used correctly," I continued with my line of bullshit; even _if_ others could do so, I had _no fucking idea_ how Chinese medical massage worked. "Further, the swellings, pressures, rhythm of the blood, color; all of these may be used in diagnosing where the issues are, and what can be done to treat them. May I have your hand?"

He lifted his hand up, and I felt his pulse. Despite his fat, the muscles of his arms were strong and corded. I sent my magic into his body, a trickle of Blue for sensing woven with Green and White to see what might be naturally or unnaturally damaging his health. I felt specks of dark, reddish grey in his blood. I had experimented earlier with sensing poisons and toxins, even done live tests with rats; this was a relatively strong one.

I nodded, then moved my hands to his chest and began the massage, loosening his muscles as I fed White mana to sequester the poison and move it to his bladder, Green to regenerate the damage left behind. I didn't want to go too far, and return the King to perfect health, but nor did I want to leave his system truly weakened. Already, the king's color was better, his breathing easier without the pain.

I left a few lightly woven strands of White and Green behind as I finished the massage. Over the next few days they'd unravel, seeping into his system and returning him to his original health. Likely better, actually; I hadn't been sure how much of the damage to his liver, heart and organs was from his lifestyle or the poison, and so I cleared it all up as best I could. Robert would likely feel a decade younger when he recovered.

All in all it had taken me about forty-five minutes before I finished. "Very well, Your Grace. You'll likely feel the need to take a piss; please do, and drink at least a flask of clean water over the next hour. You should have soup and broth, something light on the stomach like chicken, and avoid alcohol for at least two days," I recommended.

He laughed, moving much more quickly than before. "By the Gods, Ser, you've worked a miracle!"

Barristan nodded. "You've certainly done a great deed in curing the King's illness, Ser."

I could see Pycelle seething in the background. "I did nothing to cure his Grace's illness, Lord Commander," I replied.

Pycelle nodded happily. "Indeed, it is well that you recognize the importance of my medicines, Ser Odysseus. Still, your techniques were quite impressive for one so young."

Oh, that fucker. I had little doubt who was responsible for the poison, but watched his eyes closely as I spoke.

"I did not cure the king's illness because the king was not ill. He was poisoned." And there it was, as everyone else recoiled in shock, anger and horror there was that flicker of hidden fear in Pycelle's eyes. "But then again, you knew that, didn't you?" I challenged.

His hands flick over to a pocket his robes, but too slowly as I leapt the distance between us and smashed my fists into his shoulders hard enough to break the bones of even a young, fit man; Pycelle's frail, birdlike limbs were shattered.

He fell back screaming. I stepped over to him, rolled him onto his front, and without a care for his injuries secured his hands behind his back with some thin rope I habitually carried as he screamed in agony. Ser Barristan had Pycelle's servant-slash-assistant, a relatively young girl just into her teens, backed up against the wall quietly crying with his sword at her throat.

Robert was fucking _furious_. I wouldn't have been surprised if he caught on fire from the sheer extent of his rage.

"You rat fucking traitor!" he roared. "How dare you. To poison _me,_ your king!" He drew back his leg, prepared to stomp on the old man.

"Your Grace!" I shouted loudly over the sounds of Pycelle's cries, drawing his attention. "We should question him as to who was responsible before we kill him, and what other crimes he might have committed."

Roberts teeth ground, his desire for vengeance warring against his common sense. "Very well. See to it. Ned, you can witness. But I want his fucking head on my gate by morning."

"Ser Barristan, Ser Odysseus, may I suggest that Togo stays to help ensure no other poisoning attempts are successful?" Ned added.

I nodded. "Togo should be fine with that, so long as the room is cleaned and shutters opened to let in some air. The stench, you know."

"Y-you can't! You can't!" Pycelle sobbed. "I'm innocent! You can't torture me without a trial!"

Lord Stark looked uncomfortable now. "That is the law, Your Grace. Even for treason," he said.

"Damn the law!" Robert roared.

I shook my head. "Not necessary, in this case, Your Grace," I said. Everyone looked at me. "After all, first Pycelle must be searched, and stripped in case he's carrying any other assassin's tricks. Then I need to see to his shoulders – giving medical care to prisoners is, while not required, encouraged after all. But there's also nothing requiring me to give him any milk of the poppy if he's uncooperative." I jerked him a little, jostling his shoulders and making him scream in agony again. "Why, then we might need to move him about a few times, here and there. I imagine after a day or so of being jerked about on these arms he'll be ready to talk. If not, the damage would require a whole _new_ round of healing. I bet if we're careful he lasts days before the rot sets in and kills him. Or, Pycelle, you could cooperate."

Pycelle was openly sobbing now, horrified at the prospect of torture. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cried. "It was Jeremy Renos, one of the servants. He said he needed the arsenic for the rats, that they were getting to the wine. But when I saw the king, I knew. I knew," he wailed, "but I was afraid to say anything! I did my best, but I couldn't heal Your Grace, and I was scared! Please, please, forgive this old man, please!"

It was a believable story, and he was convincing. I didn't trust a word of it.

"Whose man is this Renos?" I asked.

"I believe he was the queen's," replied Barristan after a while.

"Do you remember the story of the scorpion, Your Grace?" I asked.

He paused a moment, searching his memory then his face darkened as he understood what I was implying. "I do."

"I believe you were just stung, and the Grand Maester wears red and gold."

"Indeed he does," the king said, his rage controlled and leashed. "In my name, Robert the First, King of the Seven Kingdoms, I pass sentence. Grand Maester Pycelle of the small council, your position is stripped of you. Pycelle, as a traitor your sentence is death, to be carried out immediately."

Then the king reached over, picked up a stool, and smashed in Pycelle's skull. As I looked at the corpse, splattered across the floor, I was just thankful that I didn't have to clean up the _physical_ mess that went along with cleaning up the political one.


	11. Audits

**Chapter 11: Audits**

The next months passed quickly as I was kept busy. The tournament had a hundred and one details that needed my input, apparently. The people in charge of it were too afraid to risk my ire, and after my actions I had quite the reputation for violence and perfectionism; I didn't blame them, but it was annoying.

Jon did what he could to manage the audit, but even then I had to review the books, gaining familiarity as they went. They had just finished the book-keeping for the last two years of accounts, so I was going through those. There were dozens of irregularities and issues that they had marked for me, and then I had to determine why those irregularities existed. Some were from mistakes by my detachment of newly trained accountants, but others showed a disturbingly pervasive trend of corruption.

Littlefinger was undoubtedly a financial genius, and a genius at profiting in his own right as well. He traded, invested, lended on the Crown's behalf, borrowing the money when needed to pay for it. There was a fine game afoot, as he beautifully balanced the Crown's expenditures and incomes, always showing an increasing level of each. Hell, at the first level of deeper analysis the Crown and realm were actually _more_ stable financially despite the immense debt.

But the reality showed that the balance was _too_ beautiful. Over the dozen plus years of his being Master of Coin, Baelish had cleverly taken over nearly the _entire_ financial apparatus. The four men who kept the keys to the treasury were his. So were the two men responsible for keeping the Seven Kingdoms using a standardized set of weights, measures and counting. All three mints were led by men he appointed. Within the Crownlands his rule was nearly total, harbormasters, tax-men, customs officers, toll-men, and the semi-nationalized factors who sold wool, ship's supplies and wine to Essos – they were, in the main, _Baelish's_ men.

And at a deeper look, it was obvious that the businesses that got loans, the investments Baelish made, were largely _his_ properties. Management fees, false losses, a dozen other tricks that would make a Wall-Street Banker blush in envy were used to fleece the Crown for every dragon over a certain bare minimum profit.

In other words, Baelish had invested the Crown's money wisely, then channeled the profits to his own pockets. He kept the Seven Kingdoms just solvent enough to keep the golden-egg laying goose healthy. I had no idea just how many businesses and properties he was a silent partner or secret owner of, and I suspected that a number of his holdings had been diversified to Braavos, Pentos and the other cities of Essos.

I honestly had no idea what to do about it. Dismantling his organization and seizing his properties was certainly necessary, but much like banks being too big to fail, I was worried that too great a disruption in Baelish's businesses could spark a financial collapse. The man was just _that pervasive_. It would literally be the work of _years_ to undo what he did to subsume the governmental organizations.

The most likely scenario included using a number of stewards and other business and financially trained servants from the larger lords to provide a stop-gap of trained individuals. That was, however, a solution fraught with peril. If the King, or more likely Lord Stark, mismanaged it then they could easily end up giving some lords far too great an ability to reduce their own taxes or repeat Baelish's actions in miniature.

I sighed and sat back. I hated writing with those fucking quills. Fountain pens, that was yet another thing to add to a list that just grew longer. But I was nearly done with my report, the careful documentation of the trickery that Baelish had used and some possible recommendations to fix it. On my advice, Ned had asked Lord Manderly to come down to King's Landing; as far as I was concerned, he couldn't arrive soon enough to start taking this mess out of my hands.

In my _copious_ spare time from helping organize the largest tourney in at least twenty years and uncovering decades of financial malfeasance there were a hundred and one things to take care of, and more every day.

Little Arya was homesick, and still feuding with Sansa over the older girl's failure to support her in that trial near the crossroads. Luckily Ned had found her a "dancing-master" to keep her busy, so over time I needed to spend less time supporting her. Of course, Arya normally hated dancing. This type of dancing though was much more to her liking; the man taught Braavosi water-dancing, a sort of Renaissance-ish fencing that used a weapon much more similar to a rapier. Syrio Forel, her instructor, was the former First Sword of Braavos, and perhaps the single most skilled swordsman I had ever met. I would have paid good money to see him go up against Ser Barristan, and if I'd had any time to spare would have asked him for lessons myself.

Sadly, I didn't. While Arya had her own issues, her sister Sansa was also quite needy. In her case she had fallen into something of a depression. The South was not proving to be the bastion of chivalry and honor that she had hoped, her perfect golden shit of a prince was sent away, her sister was hardly talking to her, her father had been obviously disappointed, the young ladies of the court could be cruel… and she was a fairly stereotypical teenage girl. I had _no_ idea how to handle that; I didn't even have sisters growing up, just brothers.

On the other hand, I _did_ know how to have quiet talks with those who looked to take advantage of her, stalking around the room so that Togo waited behind them just a _little_ too close, his hot breath felt on the back of their neck. I rarely had to make a second visit. When I did though I'd time it for when they were practicing in the yard, as most every male of station did from time to time. An easy drubbing and a whisper in the ear when I picked them off the dirt did for most of the repeat offenders, while a smashed face and a few broken limbs waited for those that couldn't learn. If it was a girl who was reported to have been bothering Sansa I did much the same, just to their brother or father. It was brutal, but it was a language that the people of that time and society understood and even respected.

Jon Snow, at least of all Ned's children, I kept too busy to have any of these issues. Some may have snubbed him for a bastard, but he knew I had his back and I had quickly become one of the most feared members of court. He knew I was willing to support his position and take action on his behalf, which made him feel much stronger and more secure and thus, as was often the way for those who aren't totally assholes, meant he didn't actually _need_ me to act to feel content. Just knowing that he _could_ have those assholes crushed meant that Jon felt better than he had when Lady Catelyn was looking over his shoulder to find fault.

Other than being the kids' friend, protector and backup as respectively needed, I spent a fair bit of time assisting Ned's investigation into Lord Arryn's death. It wasn't going anywhere fast, and I wasn't able to help out much with the time I had. The problem was that we were trying to find out something the man had been investigating over half a year after the fact. Naturally, as he was the Hand, Arryn had a large number of things he was doing at any point, a good portion of them things he wanted to keep confidential or secret. So we weren't just looking for a needle in a haystack, we were looking for a _specific_ needle in a haystack partially full of other needles.

So far, Ned had mostly figured out that Arryn had been up to _something_ with Stannis, and had been (uncharacteristically) visiting some brothel. Of course, Stannis was a few hundred miles away on his island, while the guards that had accompanied Arryn to the brothel had gone back to the Vale, so we didn't know _which_ brothel.

Beyond that, they had both been to visit one of the king's bastards, a boy named Gendry, who was apprenticing under an armorer. Again, the underlying reason escaped us. Perhaps he was just checking up on the king's blood? Perhaps he was starting to evaluate whether it might be better to put someone other than Joffrey onto the throne? We just didn't know. Basically, the whole thing was a giant heap of frustration.

Still, it was _sometimes_ a nice break from what I was doing otherwise. Like when that one puffed up shit of a knight, Ser Hugh, who had been Lord Arryn's squire, got uppity. When Jory, Ned's captain of the guard had gone to question him he was told that while Hugh would be glad to receive the Hand, he had no interest in being asked questions by a mere captain of guards. Shit like this was why when they offered me a knighthood I accepted, but some Northerners were so traditional, and against Andal practices, that they refused to become knights even if they could swear to a heart tree rather than the Seven.

When I heard about the disrespect I'll admit to having been somewhat frustrated in general. I had never wanted to be an accountant, and none of the people at court had done anything to justify some stress relieving (for me, at least) "behavioral correction" in over a week. After the first month the assassins had stopped trying to stab or shoot me too, and detecting and avoiding or overcoming poison and the like was much more tedious than invigorating.

That was one thing I was finding about Westeros. I kind of _liked it_. The danger and everything. I had known that I liked to spar before whatever I did, or whatever was done to me, to put me in Winterfell. But what I hadn't expected was to like the feeling of danger. I think that, without the magic, I would have hated it. The risk would have been way too high, the possibility of permanent death or impairment unacceptable. But with the magic to unbalance the playing field, well, even the danger was pretty fun. And although I was a _bit_ of a bully, I justified that since it was mostly to other bullies and in protection of the Starks that my actions were acceptable.

Anyways, Hugh had been uncooperative with Jory, so I paid him a visit. He knew better than to refuse me, and few people are mouthy when a quarter ton of fanged beast is looking at them like they might taste good. Hugh was staying in an inn on the Hook, a street off of Aegon's High Hill where a number of nobles and courtiers had properties. The inn catered to smaller nobles and knights; they knew who I was when I entered, not that there were many people my height wandering about the place, let alone ones followed by fuck-huge dogs.

I was lucky enough to catch Hugh as he sat down for dinner, and took a seat on the bench next to him. When he saw me I could see the realization in his eyes that he had fucked up.

It might have been my smile. It was not a kind smile.

His face was wan. "S-ser Odysseus," he stammered. "What an u-unexpected pleasure."

I grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head so that his ear was inches from my mouth. "IT IS GOOD TO MEET YOU, SER HUGH!" I shouted, absolutely _bellowed_ into his ear.

"Argh!" he cried out, winced, tried to bring his hand up to cover his ear. I slapped it away.

"CAN YOU HEAR ME? IS THIS LOUD ENOUGH FOR YOU?" I continued to yell at a literally deafening level as if it were normal. The whole room was looking at us. Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of the serving girls over-filling a man's drink; he flinched when the wine spilled into his lap, but kept silent rather than risk drawing my attention.

"Yes, yes! I can hear you, I'm not deaf, stop shouting, please!" he begged.

I tossed his head away. "Really? Because you seemed to be pretty damned hard of hearing when my friend, Jory Cassel, visited earlier," I said. He paled even further. "Now, I'm a busy man Hugh. The Hand's a busier one. There's the Seven Kingdoms, tens of thousands of nobles, hundreds of thousands of knights, forty million commoners, and just _one_ Hand to keep that all together. So let me make something clear, in case it wasn't before. You should count it a great honor if the Hand pays _any_ attention to you. If he sends his servant who empties his chamber pots to ask you questions you should be respectful and helpful. When he sends the _captain of his guard,_ I expect you to go above and beyond, _to be fucking obsequious! CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR ME, HUGH!"_ I screamed into his face.

"Yes, yes!" he cried.

"Good. Now, Jory would like a word with you," I said, standing up and lifting him by the back of his collar. I dragged him outside. "Now, what do you say to Captain Cassel for taking the time to visit you?"

He was just too fucking clueless to answer. "I, I… sorry?"

"Is that a fucking question, Hugh?" I shouted in my best drill instructor impersonation. "You had best unfuck yourself, or I will unscrew your head and shit in that empty fucking space where your brain should be! Now, thank the captain, you dumb shit!" I could barely stop myself from bursting into laughter. This sort of entertainment was really as good as it got in Westeros.

"T-thank you, Captain," he stammered as Jory looked on in amusement.

"Well done, Hugh, you can learn!" I said exuberantly, grinning and clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees. "Just see to it you don't forget. I'd hate to have wasted my time, and would be forced to take some more _extreme_ measures to make sure the next lesson really _sticks_."

He was panickily shaking his head. "No, no, Ser, that won't be necessary."

"Excellent!" I said, then left. When we were a few yards away, Togo started to do this huffing thing that passed for laughter. I turned to him. "Yes, that _was_ hilarious."

And really, it was. I still laugh thinking back on it, Hugh's confused face. Poor kid. I was so hard on him partially as an object lesson; Lord Stark's men had been getting a bit of pushback here and there and I wanted to nip that shit in the bud. Word of our little chat quickly spread and suddenly people were much more cooperative.

That society was big on public honor, kind of like how the Japanese and Chinese cared about having "face". No one wanted to be called out in front of their peers and humiliated like that. It wasn't quite the end of their life, but it could be a life-long black mark on their reputation, affecting everything from positions they might want in the future, their prospects for military command or marriage, everything really. For example, after answering Jory's questions Hugh pretty much _had to_ leave the capital and return home in disgrace.

So, all of those things kept me busy. But I did have some time for personal pursuits. I made sure to work out every day for at least an hour to stay in shape, and sparred a few hours a week. Purely on my technical skill I was about as good as a standard knight, a little above average with the spear while below average with the sword and shield. But between my size, fitness, and the advantages my magical cultivation had given me I was a _lot_ stronger and faster, even before applying more temporary buffs.

I hadn't had time to develop any new spells, and my continued messing about with sympathetic curses wasn't successful. I did however manage to bond just about all the available mana within the Red Keep. The Godswood gave a single Green. The keep itself, the sept and the throne room gave a combined three White, while the Library and shoreline gave a pair of Blue. The Dungeons were good for two Black mana, while the hill everything was built on finally gave me my third Red mana.

As soon as I finished with writing my report on Baelish and seeing him questioned and dead I planned to start collecting the mana available in the rest of the city, then go on a trip to the Kingswood to fill up on Green before returning along the Blackwater Bay shore to grow my stores of Blue. I didn't really have a _need_ for that level of mana, but it could come in useful in an emergency. Beyond that, I thought I might be able to develop more spells if I used mana senses and mage sight to analyze particularly dense concentrations of mana, but that meant I needed to _make_ the dense concentration in the first place.

I also wanted to visit the Alchemists Guild and see what they could teach me; wildfire, a particularly nasty substance they could make, sounded like it might have a bit of the supernatural to it. Even if it didn't, true Greek fire had been lost to history so it would be interesting to see how the local analogue actually performed. Beyond that, the Alchemists were known to have been interested in magic in Westeros before the dragons died and magic faded. Even basic knowledge might prove useful to me.

Basically, I was like most hard working persons; _I wanted a vacation_.

And then, finally, I finished the preliminary report on Littlefinger's malfeasance. I got Ned, who summoned Robert, and we went to go question Baelish.

When we got to the room where he was being held all we found were the cooling corpses of the two Stark guardsmen laying in pools of their own blood.

The mockingbird had flown away.

Not ten minutes later I received the report that on his way out, he'd seen to the burning of the building where we were analyzing the records.


	12. Tourney pt 1

**Chapter 12: Tourney pt. 1**

A month later, and Baelish was still in the wind. Robert had put a princely bounty on his head, a full thousand dragons and a lordship, with five hundred more if Littlefinger was brought in alive. But despite being hunted by every sell-sword on two continents, and despite Varys' best efforts, the man couldn't be found.

We'd had more luck with his financial empire at least. The king had sent out a proclamation that those who _were_ Baelish's partners could come forward, explain their dealings with the man, and receive a full pardon. He'd even give them two tenths of whatever part of their business Baelish owned, with a tenth going to their local lord, another tenth to their lord paramount, and the remaining six tenths to the Crown. Suffice to say, there was broad general support for the measure.

By my best estimates we'd gotten over three quarters of his holdings processed, and most of the remainder were semi-illegal businesses that would go fully illegal or vanish into the wind without Baelish's patronage. His overseas holdings were harder to seize, but diplomatic envoys had been sent to petition the local leaders.

All in all, during his tenure Baelish had managed to take the treasury's reserve, some two million dragons, and turn it into six million of debt and about eight and a half of property in the Crown's name. Another three and a half million dragons worth of coin and property were funneled into his own pockets. After paying out the rewards for coming forward, Robert's holdings increased by approximately one and a half million dragons, just under half of what Baelish had taken.

The only problem that remained was that the ten million dragons worth of businesses and holdings weren't paying enough profit to cover the interest on the six million dragons of debt. Not when Tywin Lannister, his son dead and daughter disgraced, was no longer interested in "temporarily forgiving the interest for the sake of good familial relations" as he had before.

One bit of good news was that Lord Manderly had arrived. He was quickly instated as the Master of Coin, and had prepared to hold an auction for treasury bills and bonds during the Hand's Tourney. Apart from entertaining tourists and competitors, the tournament represented one of the greatest concentrations of nobility since Robert had come to power and taken their oaths of fealty, and would be full of diplomatic, dynastic and economic wheeling and dealing.

I was hoping that we'd raise at least enough to pay off the Iron Bank; not only were their interest rates relatively high, but they and their Faceless Men represented the greatest threat to the Seven Kingdoms should Robert default on his loan. Unlike Tywin, the Bank owed no fealty to Robert and would be much harder to bring to heel in the event of any hostilities. The shorter term bills could be repaid with some of this year's tax income.

Assuming Ned managed to keep Robert from any truly profligate spending, the Crown would be more financially secure in a year or two than it had ever been. If I was still around then, I might even see about starting a truly professional, standardized army with the spare money. Robert would _love_ having one of those to play with, and a Royal Army would help the Kingdoms' stability greatly.

Three days until the Tournament begun, and I was already ready for it to be over. The first wave of competitors and spectators were showing up in ever increasing numbers. The commoners and merchants weren't so bad; they were used to being pushed around and following instructions, and knew better than to make trouble.

The lords and ladies that came to watch though were just _needy_. This wasn't right, that wasn't right, so-and-so's pavilion was better positioned, I can't _possibly_ be next to _him_ – don't you know that his great granduncle stole away my great aunt's cousin… It just went on, and on, and _on_. An unending litany of bullshit. The problem was that they were all so used to being the absolute masters of their little slices of the world. Oh, they behaved fine when feasting in the Red Keep as the king's guests, but the second they were out in the city and dealing with people who weren't the king or their lord paramount they became an absolute nightmare. And the saw no issue in escalating to higher authority.

Basically, they were the medieval equivalent of those jackass customers for whom nothing was right and they needed to see the manager _right now, dammit!_ Considering I was the Hand's assistant, all too often that meant they "needed" to see _me_. It started about a week before the Tournament as those who had the furthest to travel or least to do arrived, and it just got worse from there.

My patience lasted two days, and then they started learning just why I had such a bad reputation. People that complained about their tent's positions were suddenly relocated next to the latrines, or the bottom of hills where the water would collect when it rained, or horror-of-horrors _right next to the rich commoners!_

One person, a fat fuck from the Reach, didn't quite get the message.

Fed up, I finally decided to be _really_ _clear_. "Of course, my lord," I said, my voice saccharine. "In fact, I'll put my best assistant, Togo, onto getting your situation resolved _right away_."

Then I called Togo over. Fatty paled when he saw my "assistant."

"Togo, this man has some complaints," I said. "Why don't you help him resolve them?" Then I walked around the corner and burst into a silent fit of laughter as every time the lump of lard began to speak, Togo just growled so loudly the words couldn't be heard. Every time he tried to leave the tent, Togo snarled. Soon enough, fatty got the message.

It was effective, but the problem remained that the new visitors hadn't heard the rumors, or didn't believe them, and people were showing up in greater and greater numbers. So two days after drafting Togo as the final arbiter of complaints, I gathered the servants and other workers together.

"Alright, I'm getting far too many complaints," I said. "I don't like it. So here's what we're going to do. If there's a legitimate problem, and you can fix it, do so. Show a bit of initiative.

"If it's not a legitimate issue, I want you to warn them away. First, tell them how I've dealt with annoyances that you've witnessed over the past few days. If that doesn't work, tell them some rumor – that the last person to come to me with a complaint I didn't feel warranted was thrown into the latrine pit, or lost a hand to Togo here. Remind them that I left the Hound crippled using only my hands, that the Kingslayer's face was eaten by my dog." By their paling faces, I could tell that those facts had been temporarily forgotten on their parts as well. I was sure that I'd have a rededicated staff after this, driven by fear if nothing else.

"Lastly, if it's a legitimate issue you _can't_ fix, think about who _could_ fix it, and so long as it isn't me, try them first. Likewise, if someone junior to you comes up and wants your help fixing a problem, just ask yourself: _is telling them no, and thus their bothering Ser Odysseus, really worth it?_

"Because here's the promise I'll make you right now: if you've made a true effort, and the reason for bothering me when the city's dealing with a hundred thousand extra people is truly fair, I won't be upset. At least not at you. But if I'm getting my time wasted because of some idiot reason, _everyone_ involved will be _at least_ as unhappy as I am. Clear?"

And suddenly my workers were very motivated to see to it that I wasn't bothered by petty bullshit.

Of course, that just meant that I had more time to focus on the _real_ problems. Namely, the massive fucking horde of hedge-knights and young, carefree heirs, sell-swords, free-riders, and assorted others who had descended on the capital. Unlike the lords, who were typically somewhat older, more decorous, and more insulated by their people when they were off their rockers, the more martially focused and younger crowd were far more exuberant in their celebrations and quicker to get into fights. Knowing that they wouldn't be in King's Landing forever, their men-at-arms were quick to rob and rape, especially when they were drunk.

In short, lawlessness had descended on the city. The city watch, called gold cloaks, were ill equipped to prevent it. Only four thousand strong, they were legitimately out-numbered by the visiting knights and their men. Even if the gold cloaks had the numbers though I doubted that they'd have been very effective. Their commander, Janos Slynt, was bent as a fucking spring. The man had half the officers of the watch paying him bribes for their positions, and in the poorer areas of the city where the commoners wouldn't be able to complain he was running more of a protection racket than a police force. Under Slynt's leadership, the average gold cloak was no better trained or more lawful than the average thug.

Replacing him was _yet another_ thing that Ned or I needed to get around to, but didn't have time for. Nor did we have a good candidate to take charge instead, since so many of their officers were corrupt. I sure as hell had no desire to take on those duties. Ser Jacelyn Bywater, a senior gold cloak officer, had a good reputation for honesty, and had fought well at Pyke during the Greyjoy Rebellion. But he was a Crown-lander, and that region had both one of the higher concentrations of Targaryen loyalists and some of the most politically oriented families. Varys, who creeped me out as a person and who I distrusted in general as a spymaster backed him, which meant I was pretty much automatically wary.

The problem with bringing in an outsider was that far too few had experience running a large city watch, and the challenges were different from being a traditional captain of the guard or household knight. Lannisport had an effective city watch, but everyone there was disqualified for being loyal to the Lannisters. Gulltown in the Vale was likewise disqualified for being too riddled with Baelish's men.

We already had Lord Manderly as Master of Coin for the North, and could hardly put another Stark loyalist in the position so White Harbor was out too. Oldtown might have provided a good recruiting ground, but it was largely influenced by the Citadel and though they had disavowed Pycelle we were still concerned. Highgarden was a possibility that Renly liked, but the king was still salty that they backed the Targaryen's during Robert's rebellion.

I actually thought about having Syrio Forel take the job; he had been First Sword of Braavos, and that included overseeing their watch. But it was seen as too critical a job for a foreigner. The newly instated Grand Maester Erreck, Pycelle's replacement, suggested Ser Bonifer Hasty who led a hundred-strong band of soldiers sworn to the Faith of the Seven known as the Holy Hundred. Neither Stark nor I liked that idea, because it would increase the Faith's power too much, he might be prejudiced against the Old God followers of the North, and because the man was far too close to breaking the law banning a militant arm of the Faith for someone who's meant to enforce the law.

Dorne was out as a source for a new Watch Commander for reasons similar to that of the Westerlands; they were still furious over the deaths their family suffered when King's Landing was sacked. The Riverlands didn't have any cities, just a number of smaller towns. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, would have been a great candidate; he was a well-known knight, and had a reputation for tactical flexibility and creativity that spoke to the sort of mind that would do well running the gold cloaks. Unfortunately, he was protecting his niece, Lysa Arryn nee Tully. Considering she had recently lost her husband and feared assassins, it was unlikely he would leave her.

At the end of the day though, Slynt was just too fucking criminal. It was like having Al Capone as chief of police. So he was relieved, tried, and sentenced to the Wall. At least until we found a better option, Ser Jacelyn Bywater was put in charge, and told to clean up the gold cloaks as best he could, getting rid of the hopelessly corrupt and criminal while expanding their ranks from four thousand men to five thousand strong.

But the gold cloaks, not having had time to reform properly yet, were still totally insufficient for the task at hand.

Luckily, the solution lied in the cause of the problem; namely, the massive crowds of visiting warriors. With Robert's agreement, Ned went about requisitioning support from the lords and knights. Picking primarily from those hailing from the North, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands, but with some from the Reach, Crownlands and Vale, he asked the lords and knights to lend some of their guards, men-at-arms and other armed men that they had brought who weren't competing in the Tournament.

The men got a bit of money in their pockets, their masters got a bit of a reputation boost with the Hand and King, and Ned got a city that was once again under control.


	13. Tourney pt 2

**Chapter 13: Tourney, pt. 2**

Things were still pretty tense though. The Lannisters had shown up in force. Hell, they practically brought an army; it was light on infantry, but they must have had at least half the knights of the Westerlands with them. Considering most knights had a squire and up to six other fighters with them, one and half thousand Westerlander knights were entered, and a worryingly large number of knights had come to watch rather than fight, I estimated that Tywin had a little over twelve thousand fighting men camped near to the city or staying inside it.

No other part of the Seven Kingdoms had shown up quite so aggressively; most others were more weighted towards competitors rather than heavily armed, grim faced, war-ready "spectators". Still, there were easily another eight thousand knights and nobles from all over the Seven Kingdoms there to compete, and they had brought some twenty four thousand armed squires and other retainers with them.

All in all, and counting people who _weren't_ gentlemen but had shown up for the archery or melee or what have you, a few hundred competitors from Essos, and all the guards for the merchants looking to make a profit, that made for a combined total of more than fifty thousand fighting men in the area.

That would be bad enough even if they got along; these men were accustomed to war and brutal oppression of the commons, after all. But given the current tensions between the Lannisters and the factions backing the king – the North, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and parts of the Crownlands – it was perhaps unsurprising that a number of skirmishes, duels, knifings, and brawls occurred on a daily basis. We did what we could to keep it contained, but it was hard to stop bands of knights looking for a fight from picking one.

Ned was worried about his children. Arya was always off chasing cats around the Keep, or balancing at the top of stairs; it was far too easy to imagine some Lannister lackey arranging an accident for her. Sansa, meanwhile, was still far too naïve for her own good, and completely enamored with the idea of meeting so many beautiful ladies and gallant knights. Although Lady was nearly as large and powerful as Ghost or Nymeria, that direwolf shared the same peaceful demeanor of her mistress and I didn't trust her to protect Sansa. I'd have kept the kids together, but their ongoing feud meant it was far too likely that one of them, probably Arya, would run off.

At least Arya listened to Jon, most of the time; I set him and Ghost to guarding her whenever she was out the of Hand's Tower, and warned her that if she left without him, or didn't listen to his safety instructions when with him, I'd have to confine her and Nymeria to her room until the Tournament was over. Mercifully, she knew better than to test me.

Sansa was a different problem. The threats for her direction were both subtle and overt, especially as she was still sort-of engaged to Joffrey. The problem was that if I guarded her it would make her _more_ of a target to Tywin and his minions. After all, _Togo_ was the one to kill Jaime. Unlike Arya, who I thought at risk of attempted assassination, Sansa was much more likely to be kidnapped, kept as a "guest" by the Lannisters until Joffrey returned and they could be "happily" married. That or she might unwittingly spill some secret, or be bamboozled by an enemy.

I was too busy to guard her, and didn't have anyone else really suitable for the task of standing up to the Mountain Gregor Clegane, or standing up to the Lannister-aligned courtiers in witty exchanges. I asked Renly and Ser Loras Tyrell if they might shepherd her around Court, guiding her through the tumultuous political dealings. I suspected they were lovers, after all, and if Sansa wasn't going to marry Joffrey she could do well with a Tyrell. I figured that the Lannisters wouldn't act against the Tyrells and push them into the king's camp without serious cause.

That just left Lord Stark to guard. I was too busy to do so; luckily, Togo was smart enough and deadly enough to do so on his own. I did warn Ned that if anyone should think to try my dog for a crime that I would call a trial by combat if Togo didn't simply eat them first.

Apart from the Lannisters though it was entirely possible for Baelish to target any of us as a final "fuck you." It was all too likely he'd suborned a servant or five, and poison and the like were easy to use, especially in such an unusually chaotic time as the Tourney when it was common for your usual servant to be temporarily requisitioned and replaced by someone else.

Really, what the fuck was I thinking having the damned thing last a whole month?

The tournament started off with the Squire's Melee and Joust, then continued on with wrestling, foot races, horse races, staff-fights and other, lower entertainments. There were dueling circles where knights could challenge each other, each putting up some forfeit, and display bouts were fought between some of the best warriors in the kingdom. Larger circles allowed for team battles. There were challenges of strength and speed with ribbons for those that managed qualifying scores and small prizes for the winners. Jugglers, puppet-plays, magic shows and other street entertainment abounded. There was an air of festival, of celebration, of merry-making and money-making (by those wise enough to take advantage of the opportunities).

But not so much for me.

Apart from the aforementioned problems with fighting and other poor behavior, both semi-organized and merely drunk, there were a thousand little issues here and there, and I ended up dealing with far too many of them. I woke before dawn, and kept going until well into the night. If it weren't for Green and White energy boosts throughout the day, I'd have collapsed a couple days into it.

Most of those issues were petty. One was distinctly less so.

About a week after the tournament started, a servant came to me in a panic. Apparently a pair of the Stark guardsmen who were off duty had gotten drunk and into a fight. One of the men there had thought to send for me. It was awkward for the Hand's men to be arrested by the gold cloaks, yet they had beaten some minor lordling for speaking ill of Lord Stark, and now said lordling was intent on pressing charges. Ned was in a meeting with Robert, apparently, and the servant didn't dare interrupt.

 _What a load of bullshit_ , I remember thinking, not knowing just how correct that thought was.

So I saddled up Aethon, and requisitioned a horse for the servant, and ten minutes later we were off. It was late in the evening, the shops already closed as we thundered down the Street of Steel. I had no idea why any of the Stark Guardsmen would have been drinking out this far away from the Keep. Perhaps they had been coming the tourney grounds?

And then I saw the street ahead of me blocked off by mounted men. A whistle blew and I heard the thumping of hooves all around. A half dozen crossbowmen popped up on top of the surrounding roofs. The soldiers weren't wearing colors, but there was only one man so massive as the one leading them – Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides.

Some of the men were carrying nets; they meant to take me alive, or knew of my strength and speed and hoped to bring me down that way. If I hadn't been able to burn my way through such things it would have been a clever tactic.

"His Lordship wants a word with you, boy," the eight foot tall monster boomed, his voice deep and growling as I reached down, opening the flap of my arrow holster. "Best to come easy rather than make me angry."

I channeled White, Blue, Red and cast my Arrow-Ward, though I doubted how effective it would be. The spell was designed to deflect a few arrows at a time at a longer range, or protect from two or three up close. A half dozen heavy crossbow bolts at such a close range was another matter entirely. I layered a second, then a third on top of that.

"Then he should have visited me at the Red Keep!" I shouted as Aethon wheeled about. I didn't know if my arrows would kill a beast like Gregor, and could see that his shield was massive enough and plate was heavy enough that it might even stop them. Nor did I want to stay still long enough to test my Arrow-Ward's efficacy. But I had full faith in shooting down a handful or two of less monstrous foes left to block my rear. As Aethon turned, I pumped him and myself full of Green, temporarily adding extra Regeneration and physical strength and toughness.

I accelerated my thoughts, brought my bow up on the men forming up twenty meters behind me and began to fire. I let loose three arrows in half a second, dropping three of the dozen men in the way.

Then the crossbowmen fired, their heavy quarrels aimed at Aethon which mercifully made it easy for the Ward to send them into the stones of the street. If it weren't for that, they might have broken through all three layers rather than just the outer two. I winced in pain as some of the colorless mana I had been feeding the spell to keep it active rebounded and missed my fourth shot.

Getting closer to the blocking force, I needed to make a gap between their spears so that I could punch through. Grimacing, I fired another two arrows, taking down their horses and sending one side of their formation to the ground in a screaming mass of horses of men.

"Fly, Aethon!" I shouted, my legs holding tight against his sides as he leapt the tangled, tortured, mess.

As soon as we were no longer in sight from the pursuers, I had Aethon turn down a side street, stopping fifteen meters after turning. I stood up in the stirrups facing backwards, waiting arrow-nocked for them to come. Tywin would not be happy with their failing, and so I doubted they would stop the attack at the first failure.

More fool they; no warrior was so deadly on the retreat as the horse-archer. The narrow streets made it easy to down a few of the horses at the front of their formation and slow the entire pursuit, which just gave me more time to fill them with my arrows. Then there was the fact that Aethon was far more agile and faster on the acceleration, an unbeatable advantage since the tight turns precluded moving too quickly.

As I heard them thundering up to the alley, I drew. Then I shot the second rider to pass, and the third, fifth and sixth followed in the next second. They realized I was down the alley, pulling themselves to stop, the now rider-less horses breaking their formation and confusing things greatly. I kept shooting, a fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth arrow leaving my bow and entering their bodies in succession.

Then with a roar the Mountain was riding through their formation, his massive bulk and oversized warhorse literally smashing a hole through the confused mess. I fired two arrows at him, but only caught his thick steel shield. I had no interest in killing his horse; not yet, not when the Lannister's chief enforcer was so full of rage and murderous intent that I could lead him through the city picking off his support until I could deal with the man himself. Before he could catch up to me I was off again.

The chase continued through the streets of King's Landing in the dim twilight. I picked off a man or two each turn until finally it was just the two of us remaining. "Ser" Gregor Clegane, rapist, baby-killer, false knight, the nightmare hound of the Lannisters. And myself, "Ser" Odysseus Gangari, foreigner, mage, a knight unanointed by a Septon, the strong right fist of the Starks. Had there been a band of witnesses, our clash would likely have been remembered in story and song.

As it stood, I killed his horse, and put three arrows through his exposed leg before he could get clear. Then I stood off and put arrow after arrow into each bit of exposed body that I could as he tried to stand. I got his other leg, forcing the Mountain to lay there on the ground, helplessly trying to cover himself with his shield, to drag himself to cover.

I just put a pair of arrows through his hand when he tried.

The Mountain screamed then, and cried, and eventually begged. And then he lost strength, and his shield fell to his side, and I put an arrow through his head. Then another, and another, and another.

Just to be safe.

Then I patted Aethon, promised him a good rubbing and all the carrots and apples he could eat, and hopped down. I turned to the saddle bags, reached in, and unfolded a large cloth sack. I walked over to Clegane and drew my sword with a twisted smile.

I had some heads to collect.

After all, I heard a Lannister always pays his debts. And I intended to collect in full.


	14. Tourney pt 3

**Chapter 14: Tourney, pt. 3**

It took me two hours to track down all the corpses and take all their heads. A few of the footmen had fallen behind and stayed to guard the bodies; I made sure to kill them too. Doubtless a handful of the Lannister men had escaped, but I wasn't worried. It had been one man against forty and the Mountain besides, and the one had triumphed.

I had two massive sacks full of heads tied to Aethon's saddle. He wasn't much pleased with the blood leaking onto him.

"I know, boy, I know," I soothed him. "We'll be back to the Keep in no time and it will all be over. You did such a great job today."

Aethon tossed his head as if to say _of course I did a great job, after all I'm the best horse!_

"Yes, yes you are the best," I said, pandering to his ego. We passed under the gatehouse to the Red Keep. I flagged down one of the Stark stablehands and after passing on my orders picked up the two sacks and walked to the Grand Hall. I could tell that the evening's feast was still ongoing; despite being on the outs, Tywin had attended each night, sat at one end of the High Table and obviously fuming that Lord Stark was positioned in a place of greater honor.

I suspected tonight would be no different.

One of the servants noticed the dripping red and came up to ask me about it. Then he got close enough to smell the blood, and thought better of it. He blanched, took a few steps back, turned and left, his body posture hunched and fearful.

I smiled wryly. Tonight would do my reputation among the servants no favors. I suspected I'd be one of the most feared men in Westeros, once my story spread.

I walked through the doors of the Grand Hall, and into a riot of noise and laughter, the smell of food and wine heavy to my senses. Jugglers and musicians performed, the guests told stories and argued. And presiding over all of it, fat, drunk and happy, was Robert.

"Ah, there he is!" he boomed when he saw me. "Ser Odysseus! The great Odysseus, whose ideas made my dear friend Ned's tournament so wonderful!"

Robert was having a blast with the tournament. He loved even the most common of entertainments, and was an avid fan of the wrestling, even competing himself against one of the champions. When the man threw him, he laughed, said it would have been different were battle-hammers involved, and gave the man a dozen gold dragons. The commons loved that sort of shit, and Robert loved being loved by the commons.

The man was an overgrown child, and the fact that I'd not only figured out how he could have a month of partying, but how he could do so without actually losing much money in the process meant that I was among his favorites at the moment. He also partially credited me with helping to convince him to send away his wife, and was far happier without her to nag and snipe at him; he preferred his whores anyways.

"Your Grace," I acknowledged with a bow. Then I turned to Tywin. "Tywin Lannister. You seemed to have misplaced some of your dogs. I'm returning them to you."

Then I reached down, pulled out Gregor's mangled head, and tossed it into Tywin's chest. As people began to look on in horror I reached down and upended the sacks. Dozens of heads fell out and rolled onto the floor.

The room, once so boisterous, had fallen silent.

"Now, I don't know about you," I said loudly, my voice carrying to all present. "But when a man sends out two score men to ambush one of the Hand's men, while staying as guest in the Red Keep no less, I call him no man at all. I call him a traitor, an oath-breaker, a man who violates guest-right. I call him a coward, gutless for not even being present. I call him the lowest form of honor-less scum."

Then I took off one of my gloves, and threw it into Tywin's face hard enough to break his nose. "I'm calling _you_ gutless, honor-less, treacherous scum, Tywin. And unless you're totally craven, I'll meet you on the field of honor to settle our differences in the morning."

And then the hall erupted into pandemonium, the Lannister bannermen trying to push their way forward to their liege lord, women screaming in horror, men shouting in shock.

Robert stood up. "HOLD!" his voice thundered over the din. "THAT MEANS SHUT THE FUCK UP, AND GET YOUR ASS BACK IN YOUR SEAT!" he swore as his initial order was only partially effective.

I hadn't taken my eyes off of Tywin. The man was shaking in fury.

Robert looked at me. "Now, Odysseus, tell me what in all the hells happened. And then I want you to explain to me why it meant tossing two score heads about _my_ feast."

Ah. That _might_ have been a bit hasty, but honestly I was living my life in Westeros partially by the rule of cool. In other words, if it was ostentatious, ridiculous, overblown and cinematic, basically if it would just make a fucking badass story, I did it. To be fair, it had worked out for me so far.

"Yes, Your Grace," I replied. "A few hours ago, a servant came to tell me that some Stark guardsmen had beaten a lordling for insulting Lord Stark. This was a ruse. On my way to the location, the servant darted off down an alley and I found myself faced with the Mountain backed by some two score men. They had surrounded me and had crossbowmen on the roofs." A lot of the more martially competent men were looking at me, incredulous that I had escaped such an encirclement.

"They weren't wearing colors, of course, but the Mountain's stature is rather recognizable," I said sarcastically. Then I corrected myself with a sharp smile. " _Was_ rather recognizable, I should say."

I paused a moment to let that fact sink in. The Mountain, the most dread warrior in all of Westeros, was dead. "I had my bow and arrows at hand, as per usual, and so shot the horses of some of the men blocking my retreat. Aethon, my horse, managed to jump over the mess that left. And then it was a chase through the city where I shot down my pursuers one by one until only the Mountain was left." People were listening intently.

"And then I killed him," I said simply, a wide and wolfish smile on my face. "And then I went and I chopped off his head, and went back and hacked off the heads of every other man that tried to kill me tonight. And I brought them to the man responsible, so that he could know what outcome his actions wrought. And so that I could take the price of the debt he now owes me in full.

"Forty times he tried to kill me tonight. Forty times he failed. But unlike Tywin, I'm not incompetent. When I go against him, I'll only need the once."

A man sitting among a group of Westerland lords spoke up. "There is no proof that Lord Lannister sent Gregor Clegane after you!"

I laughed. "Please. We all know he wouldn't have moved without his master's order. Or are you really that weak, Tywin? I crippled your Hound. My _dog_ killed your son. Do you mean to tell me you're so weak, so pathetic and toothless that you didn't even _try_ and get vengeance?" I saw it, the moment he snapped.

"So what if I did!" he shouted. "You were the one that made us enemies, Odysseus. Without cause, you crippled Sandor Clegane, the Prince's Sworn Shield. After a wolf savaged Prince Joffrey, _my grandson_ , you used it as an excuse to kill my son Jaime. Since then you have seen my daughter removed from court, the prince sent to foster not with me, a former Hand, but with _Stannis Baratheon_. So if anyone here is a traitor it's _you_. So what if I sent my men against you? I'd do it again. But I won't need to. I'll meet you tomorrow, and I'll show you the difference between a true warrior and some _horse-archer_."

I shook my head. "You Lannisters are so used to ruling over others, pushing them around, you can't even recognize reality. Your Hound insulted the Starks in their own castle. Your _grandson_ had thought to cut down Arya Stark, an eleven year old girl, for the great crime of fighting with sticks. If you want to blame someone for that, and for the fight that ended in Ser Jaime's death, look to your bitch of a daughter. It was her poisonous words that made Prince Joffrey think that was acceptable, her twisted desire for vengeance that saw Jaime fight a trial by combat over killing a wolf guilty of nothing but protecting her mistress.

"No," I corrected myself. "Blame yourself. Blame yourself for whatever broken mentality you have, the mentality you infected your children with, that as Lannisters you are somehow above the rest of the Kingdom. But blame yourself quickly, because by this time tomorrow you'll be burning in the hells where you belong."

The next morning, we met for the last time.

"You're a fucking madman, you know," Jon Snow told me as he helped me finish getting my armor on. He had really been loosening up under my guidance. "No one else would think to bring down one of the Great Houses by themselves like this."

I shook my head. "It's not a question of thinking _to_ do something. It's a question of _is this necessary_ , and then _how do I do it?_ The queen hated the Starks. I could see it the moment she came to Winterfell. The Lannisters were too powerful at court, too set against your father. So I had to break them. And so I did. It's as simple as that."

He looked at me askance. "Easy for you to say. A normal man wouldn't find it so possible."

"That's where you're wrong," I replied. "Even without my _special advantages_ I could have done it. It just would have been harder, taken longer. Humans are weaker than animals. Our health is less robust, our bodies weaker and slower, our senses duller. But we can think. And a single thinking man can achieve anything. Granted, that doesn't mean they _will_. But it means that they can try, that they can take the shot. That's all there is to it, Jon. You need to recognize that you intend to do something. Then you have to figure out a way how to do it. Then you just need to get off your ass and carry out the plan."

He laughed. "You make it sound so simple."

I chuckled as well. "The hardest things always are. But in half an hour, Tywin will be dead. The king will fine them millions of dragons, wiping out the majority of the national debt, and burden them with enough taxes that they'll be hard pressed to maintain their influence in the Westerlands, let alone make more trouble for us in King's Landing. I'll have won."

"Have I mentioned how glad I am that you're loyal to my father?" he asked, only half joking.

I smiled. "Lord Stark is worthy of my loyalty," I said simply. "Now come on. Time to show the rest of the world that even the great Tywin Lannister bleeds red."

I left the tent where I had been preparing. Jon followed behind me as I walked out onto the Tourney Field. The stands were full of spectators as the word of the upcoming fight had spread. It wasn't every day they saw the Mountainslayer go up against a Lord Paramount.

I stood twenty meters away from Tywin as Robert announced the fight. I channeled Blue, and cast Thought Acceleration and improved my combat precognition. I channeled Green, improving my strength. And I channeled Red, boosting my speed.

Tywin and I closed the distance between us. I was moving slowly, normally, my spear pointed towards him.

Then he was close enough, and I lunged. I batted away his too-slow block and with a shriek of cut metal, crunch of shattered bone and squelch of torn flesh drove my spear through his helmet, his skull and out the other side.

I stepped forwards, braced my foot against his body, and with a twist of my hands and push of the foot freed my spear.

Tywin's corpse fell onto the sand, and the crowd went wild.

That afternoon Tyrion Lannister searched me out. He was accompanied by a half-dozen men who bristled at my presence.

Tyrion laughed at them. "Go on, give us time to talk," he ordered. "I doubt you'd accomplish much if Ser Odysseus wanted me dead anyways."

After they moved back a bit he looked up at me seriously. "I doubt you were expecting to see another Lannister so soon, Ser Odysseus," he said with a self-mocking smile. "But before I go back to Casterly Rock, I just wanted to say you'll have no trouble from me. It's no secret that I hated my father, and I don't blame you for his death. But for all his faults, my brother was always kind to me, so neither will you have any friendship."

I looked down at him, then nodded. "That's fair. Keep to your lands, Lord Lannister, leave the Starks be, and you'll have no trouble from me."

"A truce, then?" he asked.

"A truce," I replied. I stretched out my hand, and he shook it.

"I bet my father is rolling in his grave," he muttered as he left, his vigilant guards once more surrounding him.

Halfway through the tournament was the Great Fair. And the event deserved the capitalization. Thousands of foreign and local merchants, tens of thousands of craftsmen, all hawking their wares. Back in the middle ages, it was hard to find items from far away. A single long trading loop might take more than a year, and lose one in three ships to bad luck, bad weather, and bad men. The Great Fair brought all that, all the wondrous animals and foods and plants, the fabrics and clothing, the toys and curios, to one place.

Then there were the areas less concerned with individual extravagances, and more concerned with general business. Wool, timber, iron, and dozens of other commodities factors were all in one place with the greatest concentration of other powerful merchants and lords that they did business with. Massive supply contracts were signed, bets made that could make or break fortunes depending on how different products would perform.

Of course, it wasn't just for the wealthier merchants to profit. The greatest part of the fair was for employment. Tens of thousands of craftsmen, armorers, skilled laborers, farmers and servants tried to attract the attention of lords or wealthy knights. The land-owners, for their part, went about with lists of what their territories lacked, picking up a scribe here, a smith there, a dozen unlucky farmers to help expand the fields.

And all of it, _all of it_ , paying money to the Crown. Daily fees for merchants that ranged from silvers to golds depending on location and size of the plot. Some even owed a part of their income. Even those who were just part of the employment fair had to pay a fee once they were hired.

And in the middle of this fair was my most profitable undertaking yet; the sale of treasury bills and bonds. It happened on the third day. At the same time that Lord Manderly was organizing the auction for the most powerful and wealthy, smaller bills and bonds were available in other locations for those of more meagre means.

I loved watching the face of the Iron Bank representative, the dawning realization that no longer would the Seven Kingdoms be paying so much when borrowing money. I was surprised at how popular the 20-year bonds turned out to be, considering that all too many of the visitors wouldn't live to see the money. I guess the nobles were used to thinking in long term for things like that, with most of their increases in profits coming from agricultural development. We offered a 2x payout on the twenty year term if they let the interest ride; that may sound like a lot, until you realize that it's only a little over 3.5% annual interest. Compared to the 12.5% the treasury was paying previously, it was a massive improvement.

All in all, we sold about three million nine hundred thousand dragons of bills and bonds. There was enough of a surplus after paying back all its outstanding debt for the Iron Throne to open its own bank. On my advice, it would be focused on small business loans and agricultural credit.

Not only would the Iron Throne be making more money, but it would be improving the economy in the process. It would also be a tool to help well-behaving lords and punish ill-behaving ones. The bank paid out at a higher interest rate than the average for the Crown's debt: 5% a year including losses compared to the 2.75% that the Crown ended up owing once all of the different debt obligations were tallied.

Between everything, the Crown went from an expected gain, before extraordinary expenses (ie, Robert), of about a half a million dragons to a much-improved eight-hundred thousand dragons in Summer years. For Winter years, the expected year-end profit went from losses of about a hundred thousand dragons to gains of about two hundred thousand.

It was a nice feeling to live in a financially stable country for once.

The rest of the tournament was less exciting. I bonded with the grounds, picking up a White and a Red, the latter likely coming from the chaos, martial and festival spirit of the place.

I also ended up developing a contraception spell. Nymeria Sand was the second daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell. She was twenty-five, slim and slender with dark eyes, pronounced cheekbones and olive skin. Tyene Sand was her half-sister, twenty-three years old with golden hair and blue eyes. Both shared their father's hatred for the Lannisters, and decided to show their appreciation for my successes. We shared a fortnight of wild nights together.

I knew they were trying to get their hooks into me; they even dosed me with aphrodisiacs and the like. But I was young, and they were fun and skilled at pillow-sports. I suspect I surprised them a bit, and not just in resisting their tonics. My magic gave me literally supernatural stamina and my background in the modern world and all of its vices meant I was rather more creative than most that they'd experienced. It was great while it lasted, and honestly I was twenty-one; there was just no way I was going to ignore the opportunity.

Finally, the tournament progressed to the headline events. Ser Loras Tyrell won the joust, with Ser Barristan coming in second. Loras was impressive, and still only sixteen. He chose Summerhall as his prize. It was a former Targaryen summer home located about halfway between Highgarden and Storm's End. It was a good position for his family to have, but I noted that it also left him a lot closer to Renly's seat. Further, it wouldn't be unusual for the Lord Paramount to spend a lot of time visiting his friend and new bannerman... I had to applaud the move.

In an incredibly smooth PR move Loras gave a woman a flower every time he won a bout. Typically, they were white, but the one he gave Sansa was red. It was a brilliant political move. The odds were good that Sansa was going to marry someone other than Joffrey. If Loras, the youngest of the four Tyrell children, could end up married to the eldest daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North and Hand of the King, it would be a massive coup for Highgarden.

I actually favored having Sansa marry Loras' older brother, Willas. The alliance would help the Starks greatly, especially since the Reach was rich in food which could help the North in Winter years. The Reach as a whole was extremely fertile in both Summer and Winter, and their high productivity and population meant that they could field the largest army of all the regions of Westeros. That said, their lands were softer than any of the other regions too, save perhaps the Riverlands, and their troops tended not to show the same grit and persistence of other, harsher lands.

As a note about that; regular years had winter and summer. Capital-W-S Winter and Summer were something different. I wasn't sure if it was magic, a weird orbit, volcanic activity, or something else but Westeros, and indeed Planetos as a whole, experienced these multi-year long mini hot-ages or ice-ages. So far, they'd been having a particularly long Summer, which meant that the North had a climate similar to Southern England. During a Winter though things could get much cooler, more akin to Northern Scotland or Moscow. Famine was not uncommon in Winter, especially in the North.

Thoros of Myr, a red priest who used a flaming sword, managed to win the melee. I wanted to talk to him about his god, R'hllor, and religion; the red priests were rumored to be capable of magic, and I was interested in what I could learn from him.

When competing in the archery I _barely_ managed to come first, narrowly edging out Anguy of the Dornish Marshes. To be fair, his skill, at least for accuracy, was better than mine. At war, the range and power of my bow would have been more telling than on the more limited competition field. Still, I cast my spells as needed, and with the time available could use Destined Shot to ensure perfect placement of every arrow.

I walked away with the thousand dragons of prize money, not that I really had any need for more money or things I wanted to buy. Still, if I had a sudden need for five hundred horses or the like I could afford it. Maybe I'd invest it; start up a paper mill and printing press. There were worse things to spend the money on.

With that, the Hand's Tourney came to a close. And I could finally relax and work on my _own_ projects.


	15. A New Home

This story is not dead. It is currently being posted on royalroadl {dot} com (also known as RRL) under the username "raga", story name "Far Strider". Currently (as I write this note) there is a post a day, and this will continue until my backlog of 54 chapters (again, as of this note) is cleared.

So, why have I decided to stop posting on FFN? Well, I mostly write for the fun of writing; while posting to multiple sites helps get more readers, it's really just a pain in the ass for the writer, especially with sites using different formats (docx support for FFN, bbcode for RRL). RRL also allows embedded graphics (like maps), and doesn't do weird things in an effort to kill links.

Eventually, I want to write original stories (I'm actually working on several). RRL both allows that (so I can build up a readership of people who like my writing and are willing to give an original work of mine a shot), and supports monetization through and . Given my status as a gradually-going-broke graduate student, that last part's really important.


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